The living room hadn’t changed. The old clock still ticked unevenly on the wall. The same faded curtains let in golden streaks of the afternoon sun. And in the corner, near the window, stood the wooden rocking chair—empty, yet full.

Aarav stepped in quietly, brushing dust off the bookshelf with his fingers as if he were touching old memories. It had been two years since he had last visited the house. And two years since Dadaji had passed away.

The chair was his. No one dared sit on it—not even when the house filled with guests during Diwali. It wasn’t out of fear. It was out of love. That chair had become a monument, a quiet reminder of the man who once rocked gently in it, telling bedtime stories, solving crossword puzzles, and sipping masala chai.

Aarav sat down on the floor beside it, just as he had when he was a child. He closed his eyes and let the silence of the room speak.

He remembered the way Dadaji used to laugh—a deep, echoing laugh that filled the house. He remembered how he would press a piece of jaggery into Aarav’s hand after dinner. “For sweet dreams,” he’d say. He remembered the evening chess games and the wisdom tucked between casual conversations.

Today, Aarav wasn’t here to mourn. He was here to remember.

He reached into his backpack and pulled out a small envelope. Inside was a handwritten letter—something he had never got to send.

“Dear Dadaji,
I got the job. You would’ve smiled that quiet smile and said ‘good boy.’ I know. I miss you. And I still talk to you sometimes, out loud, like you’re listening. I think you are. I just wanted to say thank you—for everything.
Your Aarav.”

He tucked the letter gently into the cushion of the chair.

The chair didn’t move. The silence didn’t break.

But for a moment, Aarav felt a warmth around him—as if the room had exhaled, and the memories, like Dadaji’s old stories, were alive again.