Morning light spilled through the tall window of the small Indian home, painting stripes of gold across the wooden floor. Rohan padded barefoot down the hallway, following the warmth.
On the wooden shelf near the hallway, a framed photograph waited. Rohan stopped and reached out. His fingers touched the cool glass.
He lifted the frame carefully. The glass was cool and smooth under his thumbs. He walked toward the living room, where the morning was already bright.
The living room window was perfect — tall and wide, pouring sunlight onto the narrow windowsill. Rohan set the frame down and stood on his tiptoes to reach.
The frame slid left. Rohan pushed it right. It slid again. He tried once more, breathing in slow counts.
Finally — it stopped. The frame caught the edge of the sill and held. Rohan let out a quiet breath.
Sunlight glowed gold through the glass. And there — beside his mother's smiling face in the photograph — Rohan saw his own reflection.
He thought: she is still here. Not gone. Just — caught in the light, waiting for him to find her.
Rohan sat down on the step below the window. He did not move. He just watched the picture glow.
Outside, a sparrow chirped. Somewhere in the kitchen, a pot began to sing. The house was waking up around him.
He thought about his mother's smile — the one in the picture, and the one she always gave him in the mornings. Same smile. Same light.
The house filled with the sounds of morning — the kettle whistling, the radio playing, the sparrow calling again. Rohan stayed on the step, and the picture stayed in the light, and everything felt exactly right.