Chapter 37: The Shawl With the Fringe Missing

"Some things we wear are not for warmth, but for remembering."

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The shawl had always been there.

Draped across the back of the wooden chair, its edge brushing the floor like it remembered someone taller.

It was soft. Worn. Its colors faded from years of use and sun.

But most of all, it had a fringe that was uneven— one side shorter than the other.

And for the longest time, Krish never asked why.

It was Ma's shawl. The one she reached for on winter mornings. The one she used to fold clothes with, to carry apples in from the garden, to hold her arms when grief made the house too large.

One afternoon, as he passed the room, he saw her sitting in the sunlight, the shawl around her shoulders.

She was sewing. Threading a needle, eyes fixed on the corner.

He paused. Watched.

She looked up. "You always pause when I do this."

He smiled. "You always look like you're fixing something important."

She laughed. "I suppose I am."

She turned the shawl in her lap. Ran her hand down the shorter fringe.

"Do you know why this side is shorter?" she asked.

Krish shook his head.

She traced it lightly.

"Your father wore this one night. It was cold. He went to the barn to check the roof. It caught on a nail. Ripped a piece off. He cut it clean, said he'd fix it later."

She smiled to herself. "He never did. But I never minded. Because every time I wear it, I feel him pulling it tight around me. Like a memory that chose to stay."

Krish walked over. Kneeled beside her. Ran his fingers along the uneven edge.

"It's like a sentence that wasn't finished," he whispered.

She nodded. "And sometimes, that's all we need. Not the ending. Just the start. And something that reminds us of it."

They sat together in silence. Her sewing paused. His hand resting on hers.

That evening, as dusk folded itself around the village, Krish brought out his notebook.

He lit the candle. The shawl sat across the chair beside him. Its scent like old soap, wood smoke, and something softer— time.

He wrote:

"Dear Papa, Ma still wears the shawl you tore. She never stitched the missing piece. She says it reminds her of how you held her.

I think I understand now. Some things don't need to be whole to carry the full weight of love.

The shorter side speaks just as loud as the long. Maybe louder.

I used to think healing meant putting everything back the way it was. But now, I think it means holding the tear gently, and calling it part of the design.

Love, Krish."

He folded the page. Placed it inside the sketchbook Papa once used.

The next morning, he woke to the shawl draped around him.

Ma had left it in the early light. And the shorter fringe rested just over his heart.

He held it. Closed his eyes. And smiled.

Because not all mending is stitching. Sometimes, it's remembering what was left undone— and loving it anyway.