Chapter 7: A Weekend at Home (3)

After finishing her chai after talking with Priya, Chameli decided to clean the apartment. It was something she did often, not just to keep the place tidy but to distract herself from the gnawing anxiety that seemed to follow her everywhere. She started with the living room, dusting the shelves and rearranging the few decorations they had. As she wiped down the framed photograph of her parents on their wedding day, she paused, her fingers tracing the edge of the frame.

Her mother had been beautiful, with the same dark eyes and sharp features that Chameli had inherited. She wondered what her mother would say if she could see them now. Would she be disappointed in her father? Would she be proud of Chameli for holding things together as best she could? The questions were pointless, she knew, but they lingered in her mind nonetheless.

She picked up the photograph and held it closer, studying her mother's face. The image was faded, the colors washed out by time, but the joy in her mother's eyes was still vivid. Chameli remembered the stories her father used to tell about their wedding day—how her mother had worn a simple red sari, how they had danced under the stars, how they had dreamed of a future filled with happiness and success. Those stories felt like fairy tales now, distant and unreal.

"You would've known what to do," Chameli whispered to the photograph, her voice barely audible. "You always knew how to fix things."

She set the frame back on the shelf and turned her attention to the rest of the room. The apartment was small, but it was filled with memories—some sweet, some bitter. The couch where her mother used to read her bedtime stories, the table where they had shared countless meals, the balcony where they had watched the sunset together. Each object carried a piece of the past, a reminder of what they had lost.

As she dusted the shelves, she found a small box tucked away in the corner. It was covered in a thin layer of dust, as if it hadn't been touched in years. Curious, she opened it and found a collection of old letters, their edges yellowed with age. She recognized her mother's handwriting immediately—neat and elegant, with a slight slant to the right.

She unfolded one of the letters and began to read. It was addressed to her father, written shortly after their wedding. The words were filled with love and hope, with dreams of a future that seemed so bright and certain. Chameli's eyes filled with tears as she read, the weight of her mother's absence pressing down on her chest.

"Why did you have to leave us?" she murmured, clutching the letter to her chest. "We needed you. I needed you."

She sat down on the floor, the box of letters in her lap, and let the tears flow. For the first time in a long while, she allowed herself to grieve—not just for her mother, but for the life they had lost, for the father who was slipping away, for the girl she used to be. The apartment was silent, save for the sound of her quiet sobs, and for a moment, she felt completely alone.

But then, as if in response, a faint breeze drifted through the open window, carrying with it the scent of jasmine from the balcony. Chameli looked up, her tears still wet on her cheeks, and felt a strange sense of calm. It was as if her mother was there with her, whispering words of comfort in her ear.

"I'll be strong," she said aloud, her voice steady now. "For you. For Papa. For us."

She wiped her tears and carefully placed the letters back in the box, tucking it away on the shelf. The apartment still needed cleaning, and there was work to be done. But for the first time in a long while, Chameli felt a flicker of hope which was as small as fragile as the light in the darkness.