The next morning arrived with birdsong and the smell of wet earth. Rohan hadn’t slept much. The old bed creaked with every turn, and the ceiling fan was too slow to beat the summer heat. But it wasn’t the discomfort that kept him awake — it was the quiet hum of memories returning.
He made himself a cup of tea using a half-working stove and leftover tea leaves he found in the kitchen. It tasted strange, but somehow familiar — like something half-remembered from childhood. Sitting on the back steps, he looked at the courtyard bathed in morning sun, the mango tree casting long shadows across the ground.
Later that afternoon, as the village napped under the weight of the heat, Rohan began cleaning the storage room — a small dusty space that had once been a storeroom, a playroom, and later, a forgotten corner of the house.
He moved aside a pile of old newspapers, broken umbrellas, a torn suitcase… and then, tucked away behind a stack of rusted utensils, he saw it:
A dull grey tin box, with a faded red cloth tied around it.
Something about it pulled at him.
He lifted it carefully, brushing off years of dust. The latch was stiff, but after some effort, it clicked open — and the smell that escaped was a mix of paper, old ink, and time itself.
Inside were letters — dozens of them — some wrapped in brittle brown paper, others loose. Yellowed photographs peeked from underneath. There was also a small, leather-bound diary, its corners frayed, its pages soft with age.
He opened the diary.
The first page simply said:
“To my Rohan. If you ever find this, I hope you remember.”
– Nana
His throat tightened.
He turned the pages slowly. There were handwritten notes, poems, little sketches of mangoes, and half-finished thoughts:
“Today, Rohan climbed the tree and didn’t fall. He said he’ll become a pilot. Maybe he will. I hope he never forgets this courtyard.”
“I miss Leela every day. This house feels full of her memories and empty without her voice.”
“The mango tree gave 108 fruits this year. Rohan counted them, proudly.”
Rohan smiled, tears welling up without warning. He wiped them away and reached for the photos.
One showed a younger version of his grandfather, standing proudly beside the mango tree, holding a baby goat. Another showed little Rohan, maybe six or seven, covered in mud, holding up a giant mango with both hands like a trophy.
One photo, worn and folded, was of his mother and father on their wedding day — looking awkward and happy, a simpler time.
But what caught his eye most was a small envelope addressed to him, in his Nana’s careful handwriting.
He opened it slowly.
“Beta Rohan,
If you’re reading this, I’m probably long gone. But I want you to know, this house — this tree — they were never just property. They were our stories. Yours, mine, your aaji’s.
I’ve kept everything here hoping you’d come back one day.
Even if it’s to say goodbye.
Don’t be in a hurry to leave, ha? Sit under the tree once more. Listen. You might still hear your old Dadaji talking to you.”
With love,
Nana"
Rohan sat there for a long time, the tin box beside him, the sun slipping slowly through the cracked window.
He hadn’t planned to stay longer than a couple of days. But now, with every dusty photograph, every handwritten note, the house was pulling him back in — not just with its walls, but with its love.
Outside, the mango tree swayed, a single ripe fruit dropping onto the ground with a soft thud — like punctuation at the end of a forgotten sentence.