Forgotten Shadows
Chapter 1: The Empty House
The old wooden clock in the living room struck twelve. The chimes echoed through the silent
house, filling the emptiness that had settled over the years. Raj and Meera, both in their late
seventies, sat on the worn-out couch, their hands clasped together. The house, once filled with
the laughter of their children, now felt like a hollow shell.
Their son, Arjun, had moved abroad years ago, chasing his dreams, and their daughter, Priya,
had married into a different city, too busy with her new life to visit. Calls had become rare,
messages even rarer. The walls of their home were lined with framed photographs of birthdays,
weddings, and family trips—memories frozen in time, untouched by the present. Meera sighed,
running her fingers over an old photograph. "Do you think they'll come to visit this time?" she
asked softly.
Raj hesitated before answering. "Maybe, Meera. Maybe this year." But deep inside, they both
knew the truth.
Chapter 2: The Festival of Loneliness
It was Diwali, the festival of lights, but their home remained dark. The neighbours' houses
shimmered with golden lamps, and laughter spilled onto the streets. Raj and Meera watched
from their window, hoping to hear the doorbell ring, hoping to see their children return—even if
just for a day.
Meera had cooked Arjun’s favourite sweets and Priya’s favourite curry. The dining table was
set, but only for two. The phone remained silent. Every year, they had told themselves not to
expect too much. And yet, every year, the disappointment hurts just the same.
Raj patted Meera’s shoulder. "Let’s light the Diyas, dear."
With heavy hearts, they placed the lamps outside their home, their shadows flickering on the
walls like forgotten memories.
Chapter 3: The Call That Never Came
The days turned into months, the seasons changed, but the silence of the house remained
unbroken. Raj’s health began to decline, his once-strong hands now trembling with age. Meera
tried her best to care for him, but she was frail herself.
One evening, Raj sat by the phone, staring at it, as if willing it to ring. His heart ached for his
children’s voices. When he could no longer hold back, he dialled Arjun’s number. The call went
to voicemail.
The next day, Meera called Priya. After a few rings, her daughter answered, her voice rushed.
"Ma, I have a lot going on right now. Can we talk later?"
Meera forced a smile. "Of course, beta. Take care."
The call ended, and so did her hope.
Chapter 4: The Inevitable Goodbye
Winter arrived, harsh and unforgiving. Raj's health worsened, and one cold morning, he didn’t
wake up. Meera shook him gently, her voice breaking. But he was gone—his eyes closed, his
hand still reaching for the phone beside him.
The funeral was small. The neighbours came, but their own children didn’t. Arjun sent money,
Priya sent condolences over a text message. But what Meera wanted was neither money nor
words.
That night, as she sat alone in the dimly lit house, she whispered to the silence, "Raj, wait for
me. I won’t take long."
And in a way, she didn’t.
Chapter 5: The Letter Not Read A month later,
Arjun and Priya finally came home. The house was eerily silent, the air heavy with a sorrow
they hadn’t bothered to acknowledge before. Meera was gone too—found lifeless in the same
chair she had spent most of her days waiting.
On the dining table, they found an old, unopened letter. It was addressed to them.
"Dear Priya and Arjun, We don’t need your money or gifts. We only ever needed you. A little
warmth, some love, and some time in old age. But we understand—you have your lives, and we
have our memories. Keep in mind that we loved you to the end if you ever consider us. We only
wish you had loved us the same way.
With love,
Ma & Papa."
Tears streamed down Priya’s face. Arjun tightened his hands. But it was too late.
The house was empty now, just like their hearts.
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