Chapter 36: The Birdsong Between the Walls

"Some melodies are not meant to be heard loudly—they slip through cracks, gentle as healing."

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Krish woke before the sun.

The world was still soaked in shadow, and the only sound was his breath, soft, steady, and the distant flutter of something in the walls.

He lay still. Eyes open. Ears listening.

There it was again. A faint chirp. A flutter. Not a rat. Not wind. But a bird.

Trapped.

Somewhere between the bricks and wood, a small bird had found its way in— and now, it sang not in fear, but like it was trying to remember the sky.

Krish sat up. His room was dim. The candle had burned down to a curl of wax. The window was ajar, the feather on the sill swaying with the breeze.

The sound came again.

A tiny chirp. A rustle of wings.

It didn't sound desperate. It sounded… patient. As if waiting to be found.

He rose quietly. Tiptoed through the house. Ma was still asleep. The clock in the living room ticked gently— not loud, but present.

The sound led him to the old corridor— the one with the thin plaster wall, where the bricks sometimes cracked in summer heat.

He pressed his ear to it. Yes. There. Clear now.

A bird. Calling to no one. Or maybe calling to him.

He fetched a flashlight. Moved carefully. His fingers grazed the wall, his breath shallow with anticipation.

He followed the sound to the baseboard, where a loose wooden plank had always creaked beneath their feet.

He knelt. Pulled gently. The plank gave way.

Behind it: Dust. Cobweb. And a small sparrow, its wing slightly tilted, its eyes wide but calm.

Krish didn't move too fast. He extended his hand, cupped softly around the bird.

It didn't resist. Just looked at him, as if it had been waiting.

He carried it to the garden. The morning was now unfolding, the lemon tree casting long shadows across the wet grass.

He opened his hands. The bird sat a moment longer, then leapt— a flash of brown and white into the sky.

He watched it go. And for the first time in a long time, he felt like something inside him had taken flight, too.

When Ma found him later, he was still in the garden, eyes lifted.

"There was a bird," he said. "In the wall."

She blinked. "In the wall?"

He nodded. "It's gone now. But it was patient. And it sang while it waited."

Ma sat beside him on the stool. Poured two cups of tea.

"You always notice the small things."

Krish sipped slowly. "It's because of him. Papa noticed everything. Even what others forgot."

She reached into her shawl. Pulled out a folded cloth. Inside, a paper—aged, folded, soft.

"I found this in one of his old books," she said.

Krish unfolded it. A poem. Handwritten. Papa's handwriting.

"To the small things: The shadow on the wall, The chirp in the morning, The crack that lets the sunlight in. You are not forgotten. You are the reason we remember."

Krish smiled. His eyes glistened.

"I think the bird was his way of saying, 'Keep noticing.'"

That evening, Krish sat at his desk. The window open. The candle relit.

He wrote:

"Dear Papa, Today I heard a song behind the wall. Not loud. Not perfect. But filled with waiting.

It reminded me that sometimes healing doesn't arrive through doors, but through cracks.

Through small birds that wait in the dark, and still remember how to sing."

He placed the letter under the feather. Didn't seal it. Just let it breathe.

That night, as sleep tiptoed in, he dreamed of wings— not flying away, but returning.

A bird perching on his shoulder. Papa behind him, smiling. Saying nothing. Just being there.

And the clock in the living room chimed softly. As if keeping time with the bird that once sang between the walls.