"Sometimes, the place you miss the most… doesn't feel like home when you return."
The road home felt shorter than he remembered.
Maybe because he had grown. Or maybe because so many of those childhood feelings had been stretched thin over the years — stretched until they didn't feel as soft and warm as they once did. The bus rattled through dusty bends and familiar hills, and he pressed his face against the window, waiting for that first glimpse of the village.
His heart beat a little faster.
It had been almost four years since he left after Class 2. Four years since the day his mother hugged him goodbye and put him on a bus to the city. Four years since he had last walked barefoot on the rocky path to his small home.
Now he was back — older, quieter, and carrying a bag full of books and thoughts he didn't know how to share.
His mother was already waiting near the small tea shop by the bus stand. She looked different. Her eyes looked softer but heavier. She wore the same red shawl he remembered, and when she saw him step down from the bus, she didn't say anything.
She just opened her arms.
He dropped his bag and ran.
No words. Just silence and the sound of her heartbeat as he buried his face into her shoulder.
"You've grown so much," she whispered, brushing his hair. "My little boy isn't so little anymore."
He didn't reply. He just held on tighter.
The house was mostly the same.
Same old wooden door that creaked. Same small courtyard with the lemon tree. Same bed he used to crawl under when he feared the dark. But it felt smaller now. Not because it had shrunk — but because he had.
He was taller. Bigger. And quieter.
He looked at the calendar on the wall — his own photo from when he was five. A forced smile, a blue sweater, and eyes that looked lost even then.
"I kept everything just the way it was," his mother said. "I wanted you to feel like you never left."
He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.
That night, they sat outside on a charpai under the stars. The sky in the village looked cleaner, wider. There were more stars than he had seen in the city.
"Will Papa call?" he asked softly.
His mother's hand paused while shelling peas. "He might. He's busy."
"Does he know I'm back?"
She nodded. "He does."
He waited, hoping she would say more.
She didn't.
School began a week later.
Class 6 in the village school felt nothing like the city. The building was older, and the benches were harder. But the kids here were warmer. They knew his name. Some still remembered playing with him years ago. But still… he felt like a stranger.
City life had changed his words. He spoke differently. He thought differently.
One boy laughed and said, "You talk like people from Kathmandu now."
He didn't know if it was a compliment or a joke. So he just smiled.
Some afternoons, he walked alone to the places he used to play.
The old mango tree still stood tall. The small stream behind the hill still bubbled and flowed.
But something was missing.
Not the place.
Him.
He didn't feel like the boy who used to splash in that stream or chase butterflies through the fields. That boy had waited for his father every day. That boy had cried quietly when no one saw. That boy had believed that one day… his Papa would come and stay forever.
He wasn't sure he believed that anymore.
He found an old diary in the cupboard.
It still had stickers on the front — a rocket ship and a smiling moon. Inside, the first page was empty. But he started writing again.
"I'm back. But I don't know who I am here. I don't know if Papa even knows who I've become. Will he remember the sound of my voice? Will he ask what I dream about? Or will he just smile, say 'you've grown', and leave again?"
He closed the diary and slipped it under his pillow.
Weeks passed. School was fine. Home was fine. Everything was… fine.
But there was a quiet sadness that followed him like a shadow.
His mother tried to fill the silence — cooked his favorite meals, told him stories about his childhood, showed him his old drawings she had kept safe in a box.
But sometimes, in the middle of a story, her voice would tremble.
"You were so little when he left," she said one evening, holding a torn shoe he wore when he was a baby. "He missed so many things."
"Did he ever… miss me?" he asked.
She looked up slowly, her eyes soft but tired.
"He did. In his own way."
"What does that mean?"
"It means," she said, "some fathers love from far away. But they don't always know how to show it."
He didn't reply. Because he didn't understand.
One day, a letter came.
Plain envelope. Foreign stamp.
His mother opened it carefully and handed it to him.
His father's handwriting was neat. Simple. Just a few lines.
"I heard our son is back home. I'll be coming for a short visit next month. Only for five days. Let him know. I miss you both."
That was it.
No "How are you?"
No "I love you."
No "Tell him I'm proud."
Just dates. Words. Distance.
At night, he sat outside and looked at the stars again.
His mother joined him with a shawl and sat beside him.
"He's coming," she said softly.
He didn't speak.
She looked at him and asked, "Are you happy?"
"I don't know."
"What do you want to say to him?"
He paused. Then whispered, "I want to ask if he remembers my favorite color."
She looked down.
"And?" she asked.
"I want to know if he'll recognize me now."