"Some words don't stay on paper—they press themselves into the skin of your life."
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There was a drawer in the far corner of the house that Krish rarely opened. Not because he was forbidden, but because it belonged to quiet things.
Old papers. Tax forms. Envelopes with brittle edges.
But inside it was something else— a notebook. Bound in soft leather. Tied with string that had frayed at the edges.
It had been Papa's. Not the journal full of letters, not the sketchbook.
This one was different. Older. Untouched.
The cover bore one word: Truth.
Krish found it while searching for thread to repair a torn shirt. And once he saw it, he couldn't put it back.
He sat on the floor, careful not to disturb the dust that seemed to keep it company.
He untied the string. Opened the cover.
Inside: Pages filled with ink. Neat, deliberate, and deeply personal.
The first page read:
"To the truths I could not speak aloud. To the ones I feared might change how I am remembered. To the parts of me I left unwritten— until now."
Krish's heart stilled. He turned the page.
Each entry was a confession, a reflection, a moment of complete honesty.
Papa wrote about his youth. His doubts. His fear of being a father, and his greater fear of not being enough.
He wrote of mistakes, of the things he wished he had said to Ma, to his parents, and to Krish.
One passage read:
"When Krish was five, I yelled at him for breaking the remote. He cried without speaking. And in that moment, I realized how easy it is to leave marks that don't show on skin.
I held him later. Apologized. But I don't think I ever forgave myself. This is my forgiveness. Written, if not spoken."
Krish swallowed hard. The ink had bled slightly into the paper.
But it had not faded.
He read for hours.
Entries where Papa questioned his job, wondered if he had missed his calling, feared that his quietness was seen as weakness.
Krish found a page marked with a corner fold. At the top: For my son, when he is ready.
He inhaled sharply. Then read:
"Krish, If you are reading this, it means you are no longer the boy I once carried on my shoulders. You are the one carrying me now.
I don't need to tell you how much I loved you. You already feel it—in the wristwatch, in the garden, in the unfinished shelves in the store room.
But I need you to know this: It's okay not to have answers. It's okay to hurt. And it's okay to heal slowly.
The world will rush you. But your soul will know its own time. Trust that. Trust yourself.
And know that the man I was became whole the day you looked at me and smiled for no reason.
That was enough. You have always been enough.
Love, Papa."
Krish closed the book. Tears fell quietly.
He did not weep loudly. He let the words move through him, not as pain, but as presence.
The ink hadn't faded. And neither had the love.
He placed the book on his desk. Lit the candle. Opened his own journal.
He wrote:
"Dear Papa, I read your truth. And it made me feel less alone in mine.
I've doubted. I've feared I'm not enough. I've stayed quiet when I should have spoken.
But today, you reminded me that even silence can be a kind of courage.
You weren't perfect. But you were real. And that, more than anything, heals me.
Love, Krish."
He left the candle burning. The wax spilled down the side, but he didn't mind.
Because some light is worth letting run its course.
That evening, he showed the notebook to Ma.
She opened it gently. Read the folded page. Her hands shook. Her lips pressed together.
She looked at Krish. "Do you think he knew how much this would mean?"
Krish nodded. "I think he didn't write it to be remembered. I think he wrote it to keep remembering."
They left the notebook on the table. Didn't shelve it. Didn't hide it.
Some truths, once found, deserve to stay in the open.
Later that night, as wind tapped softly on the windows and the lemon tree whispered outside, Krish whispered to the ink-stained pages:
"Thank you for still speaking."
And in that hush, he swore he heard his father reply— not in sound, but in the stillness between the seconds.