It was a rainy afternoon, the kind of day Raghu usually found himself retreating to his room with a book or an old record. The sound of raindrops hitting the roof was a comfort, a rhythmic reminder of days gone by. But today was different. Today, Raghu found himself in his father’s study, a room he had avoided since his father’s passing a week ago.

The study was a world unto itself; mahogany shelves lined with aging books, a dusty globe on the corner desk, and an old clock that still ticked faintly, as if it refused to stop moving forward despite the emptiness. Raghu’s mother, Geetha, had once described this room as the space where Pawan’s soul resided.

Raghu’s fingers traced the edges of the worn furniture, his mind wandering to his childhood. His mother had been the light of their home, her laughter filling the air like a melody. She used to tell Raghu that his father wasn’t a man of many words but that his heart was deeper than the ocean.

Geetha had loved Raghu fiercely, her affection a warm cocoon that shielded him from the colder parts of life. Even after her passing five years ago, Raghu could still feel her presence in the small things; a knitted sweater she’d made for him, her handwritten recipes tucked in the kitchen drawer. It was her absence that had pulled a chasm between Raghu and his father. Pawan had retreated into silence, and Raghu had let the distance grow.

But now, as Raghu stood in this room, he felt the weight of his father’s death settle in his chest, heavy and...