The autorickshaw turned off the main road and began rattling down the narrow mud lane. On either side, familiar fields stretched wide — now dry and cracked under the summer sun. Rohan leaned slightly out, letting the hot wind hit his face. The village hadn't changed much. Or maybe he was just trying to convince himself that time had stood still.

Cows dozed lazily near a well. Children ran barefoot, chasing a tire with a stick. An old woman stared at the rickshaw as it passed, squinting, before slowly breaking into a smile.

"Rohan? Is that little Rohan?"

He gave her a half-smile and a polite nod. He didn’t recognize her, but it felt wrong not to respond.

When the rickshaw stopped, Rohan got out and stood before the old iron gate. The paint had long peeled off. It creaked when he pushed it open, the sound oddly satisfying, like the house was sighing after a long sleep.

The courtyard greeted him with silence.

But the mango tree was still there — tall, proud, unmoved. Its branches swayed gently in the breeze, and for a second, he swore he heard laughter. His own laughter, as a boy, climbing that tree, hiding behind its trunk, plucking raw mangoes and eating them with salt and chilli powder, staining his shirt and fingers.

He stepped forward slowly. The once-red tulsi pot near the front steps was now cracked, the lamp dry. The wooden door groaned open, and the smell hit him immediately — old wood, dust, something faintly sweet, something faintly sad.

Inside, the house looked like a ghost had lived there.

Cobwebs hung from the corners. The floor was coated in dust thick enough to write his name in. A lone chair sat beside the window, draped in white cloth. A calendar on the wall read 2011. The kitchen shelves were still lined with spice tins — turmeric, red chilli, methi seeds — now faded and forgotten.

He walked room to room, not switching on the lights. Each space whispered stories.

In the bedroom, the wooden almirah stood slightly open. A pair of old rubber chappals sat beside the bed — Nana’s. Just seeing them brought a lump to his throat.

He sat down on the edge of the cot and looked out the window. From there, he could see the mango tree’s thick branches stretching towards the house, like it was trying to come inside and say, “You’re late, but I’m still here.”

Suddenly, the quiet got to him. He stood up, opened the main door again, and walked back into the courtyard.

The ground beneath the mango tree was cracked and dry, but somehow, still sacred. Rohan crouched down, ran his hand over the soil, and closed his eyes.

This wasn’t just a house.

It was his house. His history. His Nana’s voice. His childhood — covered in dust, yes — but not forgotten.

Behind him, the house stood silent. But the tree rustled gently above, like it had waited all these years just to welcome him back.