"I came," she replied.
The key still turned with the same stubborn grind. Inside, the smell of old wood and cardamom tea wrapped around her. Her father had fallen asleep on the sofa, the TV murmuring a news channel's year-end recap. Her mother's knitting lay abandoned on the armrest.
Outside, fireworks crackled faintly—not the grand spectacle of previous New Year's Eves, but hopeful. Small. Enough.
Her mother rushed forward, arms outstretched, and for the first time in nine months, Meera felt the world shrink to the size of an embrace.
Then a soft creak. Her mother's voice, sleepy but clear: "Beta? Is that you?"
They sat together in the dark living room, sharing leftover chai and a single piece of stale cake. No 300Mb download could capture the grain of that moment—the way her mother's hand never left hers, the way her father kept checking the door as if afraid she'd disappear.
2020 had been a year of locked doors and distant voices. For Meera, the phrase "Welcome Home" had lost its meaning somewhere between March and August, when her flight was canceled twice and the word "quarantine" became a constant hum in her brain.
She hadn't told her parents she was coming.
"I came," she replied.
The key still turned with the same stubborn grind. Inside, the smell of old wood and cardamom tea wrapped around her. Her father had fallen asleep on the sofa, the TV murmuring a news channel's year-end recap. Her mother's knitting lay abandoned on the armrest.
Outside, fireworks crackled faintly—not the grand spectacle of previous New Year's Eves, but hopeful. Small. Enough.
Her mother rushed forward, arms outstretched, and for the first time in nine months, Meera felt the world shrink to the size of an embrace.
Then a soft creak. Her mother's voice, sleepy but clear: "Beta? Is that you?"
They sat together in the dark living room, sharing leftover chai and a single piece of stale cake. No 300Mb download could capture the grain of that moment—the way her mother's hand never left hers, the way her father kept checking the door as if afraid she'd disappear.
2020 had been a year of locked doors and distant voices. For Meera, the phrase "Welcome Home" had lost its meaning somewhere between March and August, when her flight was canceled twice and the word "quarantine" became a constant hum in her brain.
She hadn't told her parents she was coming.