"Some reflections don't show you what you look like—they show you what you carry."
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The mirror in Krish's room had been covered since the day Papa left.
Not broken. Not cracked. Just veiled with a white cloth, its edges tucked like a sleeping child.
Ma had covered it. Krish had never asked her why, but he knew.
It was the mirror Papa had used every morning. To comb his hair. To adjust his collar. To smile gently at himself—as if reminding the man in the reflection to keep going.
Krish remembered the sound of the comb. The quiet clearing of Papa's throat. The soft whistle of an unfinished tune.
And then silence.
Now, that silence had lived too long behind the white cloth.
On a windy afternoon, with golden light slanting through the curtains, Krish stood before it.
His fingers trembled at the edges. He pulled.
The cloth slid away.
Dust sparkled in the air. The mirror blinked, as if waking from a long sleep.
And there, staring back, was Krish.
Older. Taller. Eyes deeper.
But not alone.
Because in that glass, he didn't just see his face— he saw his father.
In the curve of the jaw. In the slight arch of the brows. In the way his shoulders leaned ever so slightly to the left.
He blinked. The mirror blinked too.
He touched the glass. It was cool. Smooth.
But it pulsed with warmth, as if it had been waiting for this moment.
Waiting to show him not what he looked like— but what he carried.
Ma passed by the doorway. Saw the mirror uncovered. Paused.
Krish looked at her. "I wanted to see him again."
She stepped in slowly.
"He's in you," she said.
He nodded.
Ma touched the frame. Ran her fingers along the wood.
"He fixed this mirror when it cracked. Didn't throw it away. Said, 'A crack only ruins a thing if we pretend it never existed.'"
Krish smiled. "He was never afraid of imperfections."
She leaned against the doorway. "I think he believed that the mirror didn't show flaws—it showed stories."
They both looked into it. Side by side. Two people made of memory and breath.
That evening, Krish cleaned the mirror. Polished the frame. Let the sunset reflect off its surface.
He watched himself fade slowly as the light changed, and saw only Papa's shadow there, not as a ghost, but as a rhythm.
Later, he sat at his desk. Opened the notebook. Wrote:
"Dear Papa, I looked into the mirror today. And I didn't see emptiness. I saw a boy who looks more like you each day.
But more than that, I saw the things you left behind: patience, kindness, and a stillness that listens.
I used to avoid my reflection. Afraid it would remind me of what I'd lost. But now, it reminds me of what I've kept.
Love, Krish."
He folded the letter. Slipped it behind the mirror. Not hidden. Just resting.
That night, he lit a candle on the table beside it. The flame danced in the glass. And for a brief moment, he saw them both— himself and the man who raised him— sitting in silence, smiling.
Because some reflections aren't seen with eyes. They're felt. In the hush. In the heartbeat. In the space between breaths.