The routine had started eating him from the inside.
Wake up. Brush. Class. Study. Eat. Sleep.
Repeat.
Every day felt like a replay of the last. Only difference — his eyes looked more tired in the mirror.
He was doing good in school. Teachers praised him. Friends thought he was focused. But only he knew... he wasn't studying to learn.
He was studying to distract.
From the silence in his hostel room.
From the growing fear in his mom's voice.
From the thought that his dad's time might be running out.
One evening, he returned to the hostel and saw a brown envelope on his bed.
No sender name.
Just his name in shaky handwriting.
He stared at it.
Heart racing.
Hands slightly trembling.
He opened it slowly.
Inside was a letter.
And it started with...
"My Son,
If you're reading this, it means I couldn't say it out loud…"
His hands froze.
He looked around.
The room spun for a second.
Then he kept reading.
"I never wanted to leave you.
Not when you were born.
Not when you cried for me.
Not when you carried my bag with your tiny hands.
But I had to.
Because I couldn't bear the thought of you growing up with nothing.
And now, years later, I fear I'm running out of time.
Your mother doesn't know I'm writing this.
She always believed I'd live to see you become a man.
But in case I don't...
I want you to know this —
I have watched you grow.
Through photos, calls, and stories.
Every small achievement, every award you got, every tear you hid —
I saw it.
I felt it.
I lived it.
Even from miles away."
He couldn't read anymore.
His eyes flooded.
Tears dropped onto the paper.
The ink smudged slightly — but the words had already burned into his soul.
He wiped his face and continued.
"I don't regret working hard.
But I regret not holding your hand when you were scared.
I regret not being the one to teach you how to ride a bike.
I regret not being there when you fell, so I could help you up.
And if I go…
Just remember —
My love didn't end with me.
It lives in you.
Every heartbeat of yours… carries a piece of mine.
Be kind.
Be brave.
Be better than me.
And smile more.
Because you have a smile that can heal hearts.
I know.
Because it healed mine.
– Your Papa."
The letter slipped from his hands.
He didn't realize how tightly he was gripping it until his knuckles turned pale.
He sat there for hours.
Silent.
Broken.
Whole.
He called his mom immediately.
"Ma… where's Papa?"
"He's sleeping," she replied, voice low. "Why? What happened?"
He didn't tell her about the letter.
"I just… miss him."
She sighed. "He misses you more than words can hold."
The next few days felt different.
The air.
The books.
Even the way he walked.
He carried the letter in his bag — always.
A part of him wanted to believe Papa was fine.
Another part feared waking up to a call he didn't want to receive.
A week later, on a Sunday morning, the phone rang.
Unknown Number.
He picked up.
"Hello?"
"Is this Krish?"
"Yes?"
"I'm calling from the hospital."
His heart stopped.
"Your father collapsed this morning."
"He's alive, but very weak."
"We need you to come as soon as possible."
The world paused.
He didn't even pack properly.
Just ran.
Ran to the bus station.
Bought a ticket with trembling hands.
Called his mom.
"I'm coming home."
The road that once took him away… was now bringing him back.
But this time, he wasn't excited.
He was scared.
When he reached the hospital, the air smelled like antiseptic and sadness.
He saw his mom outside the ICU. Eyes red. Lips trembling.
No words were needed.
He hugged her tight.
For the first time in years — they cried together.
Not because of separation.
But because of the fear of forever.
He went inside.
There he was.
His Papa.
Pale. Thin. Wires attached. Breathing mask on.
But when the boy called softly, "Papa…"
The father opened his eyes. Slowly. Weakly.
And smiled.
A small, broken smile.
But it was everything.
"I got your letter," the boy whispered, holding his hand.
His father blinked. Maybe a tear. Maybe a thank you. Maybe both.
He stayed by his side the whole night.
Didn't sleep.
Just watched him.
The man who had missed his childhood…
But was there — maybe for the last time — in his growing.
Morning came.
Light spilled through the window.
And for a second… everything felt okay.
"Finally brought back the father in a raw, real way. And we still don't know what's next — will he recover? Will the son get his time? Or is this goodbye?"