Chapter 44: The Song the Wood Still Sang

"Some objects don't creak—they speak."

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The old cupboard in the corner of the storeroom had always creaked.

Not a sharp sound, not startling— but a low, slow sigh every time its door moved.

Krish used to think it was tired wood, bowed with age.

But now, as he stood before it, he thought it sounded like a voice— one worn by time, but still willing to speak.

The room smelled of dust and dried rose petals. The light from the window barely reached the far wall. But the cupboard stood tall, unmoved by the years.

Papa had built it. Piece by piece. He never used a guide. Only his hands, and a kind of knowing passed down like a secret.

Ma once told Krish that the cupboard had no nails. Only wooden joints, and patience.

Krish touched the handle. It was smooth with years of use.

He pulled. The door creaked.

And for the first time in a long time, Krish didn't hear furniture. He heard a song.

Not with notes. Not with melody. But with memory.

Inside were stacks of blankets, some torn, some folded with care.

And behind them— a smaller drawer. Locked.

He hadn't known it was there. Had passed it for years.

He reached in. Felt the wood, found the small keyhole, and paused.

Then he remembered: Papa used to keep a ring of small keys under the bed.

Krish ran to the room, found the tin, opened it.

There it was. A tiny brass key, worn dull.

He brought it back. Inserted it into the drawer. Turned.

A soft click.

And then—

Letters.

Bundles of them, tied in string.

Not addressed to anyone. Just marked by year.

Each one in Papa's handwriting. Each envelope sealed.

Krish pulled one out.

It was dated ten years ago. Before the sickness. Before the silences grew longer.

He opened it.

Inside:

"To my future moments. To the days I will not be present in. To the questions I hope you will never have to ask alone."

Krish sat on the floor. And read.

Each letter was a conversation. Not about what had happened, but about what might.

There were pages where Papa spoke of love. Of how to know it. How to lose it. How to let it grow again.

There were notes about cooking. About choosing books. About planting lemon trees in bad soil.

He even found a list: "Things I Hope You Remember Without Me":

Always wear socks in winter.

Don't pretend tea fixes everything.

Say sorry when it's hardest.

Watch the sky more than the screen.

Listen to your mother. She knows more than both of us combined.

Krish laughed. Cried. Felt something inside stretch open.

He had never known his father had written these. Never guessed.

But they were here. Inside a drawer. Inside wood that still sang.

Ma found him an hour later.

Her eyes widened. "You opened it."

Krish nodded.

"He left them for me. For the future."

She knelt beside him. Took one of the letters. Her hands trembled.

"This one he wrote the night you stayed up with fever. He didn't sleep. Just wrote and watched you breathe."

Krish placed the letters back carefully. Not to hide them. But to keep them safe.

He whispered, "The cupboard still sings."

Ma smiled. "He used to say that too. Said the wood remembered his hands."

That night, Krish sat by the cupboard. Lit a candle. Read a letter aloud.

He didn't feel haunted. He felt held.

Because the cupboard wasn't a storage. It was a chorus. A body of wood and voice.

Later, as the candle flickered low, he wrote:

"Dear Papa, Today the cupboard told me everything you couldn't say when you were here.

And I didn't feel sad. I felt found.

You built it with joints, not nails. With patience, not force.

And that's how you built me too.

Love, Krish."

He folded the letter. Tucked it into the newest envelope. Dated it.

Then placed it in the drawer, with all the others.

Because some songs don't end. They just wait for a voice to hum them back.