In the days that followed, Saravanan traced memories like footprints in shifting sand — some clear, some swallowed by time. But it was the unfinished pieces in the diary that gripped him most. One in particular stayed with him like an echo:
"Someday... Goa. With Vasanth, Thamizharasan, Mahesh, and Selvi. Salt in the air, silence in the heart. A trip we promised. A trip we postponed. A trip we never took."
Saravanan paused on that page many times. He imagined them all — young, wild with dreams, plotting that trip under streetlights or in hostel rooms. Perhaps they had even saved up, shared jokes about beachside adventures, planned to forget the world for just a few days.
But life, like it often does, had other ideas.
Maybe someone's mother fell sick. Maybe Mahesh lost his job. Maybe Subramaniyan was too busy building a future that refused to wait.
Now, only Saravanan was left to honor the memory. But something in his heart said: don't go.
To recreate the trip would be to try and own a memory that was never his. Some stories are most powerful when left incomplete — like a song that fades just before the final chorus.
He closed the diary slowly, whispered:
"Some dreams are sacred because they never happened."
But then came the mystery.
Toward the end of the diary, in a corner smudged with age, was a line — scribbled almost like an afterthought:
"7/G, Kandhakottai Quarters. Ask no one. Go only if ready."
The line felt out of place. It wasn't attached to a memory or person. It didn't glow with nostalgia like the others. It felt like a code, a breadcrumb left behind by a man who knew that even after death, he'd still have one final story.
Saravanan was intrigued. He searched online. No Kandhakottai Quarters in Chennai, or even Tamil Nadu. He asked Thamizharasan, Mahesh, even local postmen and autorickshaw drivers.
All shook their heads.
One shrugged and said, "Never heard of it. Sounds made up."
Another joked, "Maybe it's a house in his dream."
But Saravanan knew better. His father never romanticized things. If it was written, it mattered.
Still, no one could point him there.
So he sat one afternoon under the banyan tree in Royapuram, staring at the address on a torn page.
7/G, Kandhakottai Quarters.
The words taunted him gently — like a ghost just beyond reach.
He realized something:
This mystery wasn't just about a place.
It was about choice. Subramaniyan had written:
"Ask no one. Go only if ready."
It was less of an instruction, and more of a test.
Maybe 7/G was more than a location. Maybe it was a metaphor — a room in his father's soul that even Saravanan hadn't yet earned the key to.
So he left the mystery unsolved — for now.
He copied the address onto a fresh page, folded it, and placed it in his wallet — next to his own passport photo.
Someday, he told himself.
When he was ready.
When he understood what kind of man he was becoming.
Then, and only then, would he go looking for 7/G. And maybe then, it would appear.