The weeks after the ritual stretched into a fragile calm. For the first time in months, the house was steady—its walls no longer trembling, its corners no longer alive with whispers. The family began to trust the silence again, to believe in ordinary rhythms: mornings filled with school lunches and prayers, evenings softened by laughter instead of dread.
Yet even in silence, memory has its own voice.
The First Echo
One afternoon, sunlight streamed gently through the curtains while Aarav sat cross-legged on the floor with his crayons. He was drawing a landscape: a crooked tree, a bright yellow sun, and a sky left uncolored. His tongue peeked out in concentration as he reached for the blue crayon.
Then he paused. His head tilted slightly, as if listening to something beyond the room.
Meera, folding laundry nearby, looked up. "What is it, beta?" she asked softly.
Without hesitation, Aarav picked up the blue crayon and began shading the sky. "Papa said I should make it blue," he said casually, as if commenting on the weather.
The words struck Meera like a stone dropped into still water. She froze, the sari slipping from her lap. "What did you say?" she asked, her voice tight.
"Papa told me," Aarav repeated, his tone innocent. He smiled faintly, his hand steady as he colored. "He said the sky should always be blue because it makes people happy."
Meera's breath caught. Rajiv had said those exact words once—years ago, on a family picnic, teasing Aarav for coloring a purple sky in his picture book. She remembered the laughter, the way Rajiv had tickled their son until he giggled uncontrollably.
Her throat ached. "Aarav," she said carefully, "when did Papa tell you that?"
"Just now," the boy answered simply, eyes still fixed on his drawing.
The sound of crayon scratching filled the quiet room. Nothing stirred, no shadows loomed, and yet the air seemed to hum faintly, as though memory itself had taken shape.
Meera whispered under her breath, "Rajiv…?"
But only silence replied, while Aarav's sky grew bluer and brighter.
Small Signs
The echo might have been dismissed as a child's imagination. Meera told herself Aarav could have remembered those words on his own. Children carried echoes of their parents long after they were gone.
But soon, other small things followed.
One evening, Priya switched on the radio while preparing dinner. The dial rested on a static-filled frequency, and she reached to adjust it. Before her fingers touched the knob, the crackle shifted, clearing suddenly into the familiar notes of an old Hindi song—Rajiv's favorite.
Priya froze, her ladle slipping from her hand. She stared at the radio as the melody filled the kitchen. It was the same bittersweet tune Rajiv used to hum while reading or tinkering with his tools.
"Didi!" she called, voice trembling. Meera hurried in, wiping her hands, and together they stood silently as Rajiv's favorite song played on its own.
"Maybe it's just coincidence," Meera said finally, though her tone wavered. "Maybe someone requested it."
Priya shook her head. "I didn't even touch the dial."
The song faded back into static as suddenly as it had begun.
The next morning, the grandmother frowned while opening the front gate. "Strange," she muttered. "I locked this last night. And there's no wind strong enough to push it open."
Later still, Aarav stopped mid-play and waved toward the balcony.
"Who are you waving to?" Priya asked carefully.
"Papa," he said simply, then returned to his toys.
The house grew quiet again, each of them unwilling to voice what they felt. The signs were not angry, not violent, but they stirred unease—and longing—in equal measure.
Meera's Conflict
That night, Meera lay awake, restless. Every sign replayed in her mind: Aarav's words, the song, the swinging gate. Were they truly echoes of Rajiv—or her grief reshaping itself, whispering comfort where none existed?
She rose quietly and sat by the balcony with Rajiv's diary pressed to her chest. Its pages were a lifeline, carrying fragments of him in ink and memory. She flipped to a random passage and read: "The sky is always blue above the clouds. Even when storms gather, the blue is still there."
The ache in her chest deepened. "Was that you, Rajiv?" she whispered. "Are you still here? Or am I just hearing what I want?"
A cool breeze drifted through the balcony, brushing her cheek. For a moment, she let herself believe it was his answer.
But she remembered the priest's warning: love, when clung to too fiercely, could bind a spirit, twist it into something unnatural. She had seen Rajiv's fury when trapped between longing and release. And yet—these echoes felt different. They were soft, almost tender, as though a gentler piece of him lingered.
Her heart warred with itself. If she embraced the echoes, would she pull him back into unrest? If she denied them, was she betraying his memory?
That night, sleep carried her into a dream. She stood beneath a vast blue sky, so bright it hurt her eyes. In the distance, Rajiv appeared—calm, smiling. He did not approach, only lifted his hand in a wave.
When she awoke, her cheeks were damp. The dream felt like a message, though she could not decide if it was comfort or torment.
"Am I strong enough to let you go again, Rajiv?" she whispered to the dark.
Only silence answered.
Confrontation Between Sisters
It was late evening when Priya found her sister once again on the balcony, Rajiv's diary clutched tightly to her chest.
"Didi," she said, her voice firm but gentle, "you have to stop this."
Meera looked up, startled. "Stop what?"
"Waiting," Priya replied. "Listening for him. Talking to him. These echoes—they'll hurt us if we keep clinging."
Meera's voice sharpened. "But what if they're not just echoes? What if they're him? You saw the radio. You saw Aarav wave."
Priya's expression hardened. "Yes, and we also saw what happened when we couldn't let him go. Do you want that again? Do you want the walls shaking, the fear in Aarav's eyes?"
Meera turned away, gripping the railing. Her voice broke. "This isn't fear. For once, it feels like love. Maybe remembering him keeps him with us."
"Remembering him," Priya said firmly, "is not the same as summoning him. Memories belong here. Spirits belong there. Please don't blur that line again."
The sisters fell into silence. Finally, Priya touched Meera's arm, her tone softening. "We can honor him, Didi. Tell Aarav stories, keep his memory alive. But don't call him back. We can't survive that twice."
Meera's eyes glistened. She wanted to argue, but the weight of truth pressed against her heart.
Closing Symbol
The next afternoon, Aarav sat at the table, crayons scattered everywhere. When he finished, he held up his drawing proudly.
"Look, Mama!" he said.
Meera leaned in. The picture showed a bright field beneath a wide blue sky. At the edge stood a tall figure, drawn with bold lines. Rajiv. But this time, he was distant—near the horizon, his hand lifted in a wave.
"That's Papa?" she asked gently.
Aarav nodded. "Yes. He's happy now. He says we don't need him close anymore. He's watching from far away."
The grandmother leaned in, her voice trembling but kind. "Children sometimes see truths we struggle to accept."
Meera's eyes burned with tears, but her chest felt strangely light. She pulled Aarav into her arms. "You're right, beta. Papa is happy. And so are we."
That evening, the house remained calm. No radios flickered on, no gates swung open. Only the quiet hum of life filled the air.
And for the first time since the echoes began, Meera believed this was not Rajiv trying to return, but simply love lingering long enough to wave goodbye one last time—gently, from a distance.