Mamajbby

He folded the photograph and tucked it back into the pocket of his kurta.

Mamaji paused. A koel called from the neem tree. mamajbby

He stood up, kissed my forehead, and walked inside. The photo stayed in his pocket. But the jasmine—the one he had plucked from the garden that morning—lay forgotten on the charpoy, its fragrance filling the dark like a promise kept. He folded the photograph and tucked it back

“Regret? No, beta. Regret is for things you didn’t feel. I felt everything. That’s why I’m still here. That’s why I still laugh.” kissed my forehead