The bus did not announce its departure.
It simply exhaled, lurched, and began to move — pulling itself, and everyone inside it, away from the town that had taught Akshay how to disappear.
Kannan sat by the window, the folded drawing of the sea resting in his lap. Outside, the bus stand receded into dust and motion, people shrinking into shapes, shapes into memory.
South.
The word felt heavier than any mountain.
Arun took the seat beside him without asking. He didn't speak either. He knew this stretch of the journey was not meant for conversation.
Sara settled across the aisle with Basil asleep against her shoulder. Nish and Arjun sat a few rows back, heads bent together over a map, tracing routes not just on paper but through time. Ravi stared ahead, eyes hollowed by thought. Jeevan stood near the front, one hand braced against a rail, watching the road unwind like a long confession.
The bus climbed once more, then slowly began to descend — leaving the hills behind.
The first night passed in fragments.
Snatches of sleep.The rattle of windows.A sudden jolt that sent everyone awake for a second before surrendering again.
Kannan dreamed in pieces.
A boy walking beside water.A hand slipping from his grasp.The sea opening like a mouth that did not ask questions.
He woke before dawn, heart pounding.
Arun was awake too.
"You alright?" Arun asked softly.
Kannan nodded after a moment.
"I think," he said slowly, "this is the part where I stop imagining him as a child."
Arun watched the pale light creep across the horizon.
"And start imagining him as someone who might not want to be found," he said.
Kannan closed his eyes.
"Yes."
As the bus crossed state after state, the land flattened, warmed, softened. Dry browns gave way to greens. Rivers widened. Language shifted at tea stalls. Food changed — spices deepened, rice replaced wheat, coconut began to appear.
Home was no longer a direction.
It was a feeling pressing in from the edges.
Sara noticed the change in Kannan before anyone else.
"You're quieter again," she said gently, handing him a cup of tea during a stop.
"I'm afraid," he admitted. "Not that he's dead. That he's alive… and doesn't want me."
Sara didn't contradict him.
"That's a real fear," she said. "Especially for parents who arrive late."
Kannan's voice dropped.
"What if I find him and he looks at me like I'm a stranger?"
Sara met his eyes.
"Then you will have found him," she said. "And the rest will take its own time."
Somewhere past Nagpur, Nish came forward and crouched near Kannan's seat.
"I've been thinking," he said quietly. "If he came south with work groups, he likely passed through major labor hubs. Construction corridors. Ports."
Arjun nodded from behind him.
"And he wouldn't stay long in places that asked for papers."
Kannan looked at the map Nish held.
His finger traced a familiar curve.
"Kerala," he said softly. "Not just because it's home. Because it's water. Work. Movement."
Ravi looked up.
"And because if you wanted to disappear gently," he added, "that's where you'd go."
The bus rolled on.
When they crossed into Kerala, it happened without ceremony.
No gate.No announcement.Just a subtle shift — palm trees appearing at the edges, the air thickening with moisture, a smell of wet earth and familiarity.
Kannan felt it immediately.
His chest tightened, not with relief, but with memory.
This land had known him before he had failed.
He pressed his forehead lightly against the window.
"I left from here," he murmured. "And he's been walking back without knowing it."
Arun followed his gaze.
"Maybe he knew," he said. "Maybe he just didn't know how."
They stopped near a coastal town by evening.
Fishing boats lined the shore like tired animals pulled onto sand. The sea stretched wide and indifferent, exactly like the drawing Akshay had made.
Kannan stood at the edge of the water, shoes in hand, trousers rolled up, letting the waves wash over his feet.
"This is where the river ends," he said.
"And where people begin again," Jeevan replied.
Kannan turned to him.
"Do boys like him survive here?" he asked.
Jeevan nodded.
"Yes. Ports are cruel," he said. "But they are also anonymous. If he wanted to work, to learn, to vanish slowly — he could."
Sara watched Kannan carefully.
"You're close now," she said. "Not in distance. In readiness."
Kannan nodded.
"I don't know who I'll meet," he said. "My son… or a stranger with my son's eyes."
Arun stepped beside him, looking out at the sea.
"Either way," he said, "you show up."
That night, they stayed in a small lodge near the harbor.
The sound of waves filled the rooms, steady and relentless.
Kannan lay awake again.
But this time, the fear had shifted.
He was no longer afraid of not finding Akshay.
He was afraid of finding him — and discovering that the boy who had survived mountains, borders, and years of silence no longer needed the father who had come too late.
Kannan whispered into the dark:
"If you don't need me… let me still see you."
Outside, the sea breathed.
Endlessly.
Indifferently.
Waiting for nothing.