The afternoon sun slowly sets on the western horizon, emitting a warm orange glow. In a small village, Aditya sits under an old mango tree in his grandmother's yard. The tree is a silent witness to his childhood, where he often played with his friends. On his lap, an old photo album is open, displaying pictures full of stories.
He looks at the smiling photo of himself when he was seven years old, with round cheeks and messy hair, standing next to his grandmother who is holding a plate of sponge cake. His grandmother made the cake every time it rained—a small tradition full of warmth
There was a day when he and his friends ran in the rice fields, waiting for kites that were flying high. Their laughter erupted, accompanying the stinging wind. There was also a moment when he and a shy girl gave a lying flower to a little girl named Maya, a playmate who is now who knows where.
But the sweetest memory was the last night before he moved to the city. His grandmother asked him to sit on the veranda of the house, under a sky filled with stars. In her soft voice, she said, “Aditya, wherever you go, don’t forget where you came from. This village, this tree, even grandma’s sponge cake—they are all part of you.”
Those words stuck with him to this day. Whenever he felt lost, the memory of that night became a beacon that guided him. Now, as a busy adult in the city, he returned to the village only to calm himself and dive into the sweet memories that forgave him who he was.
That night, under the mango tree, Aditya closed the photo album with a smile. The wind carried the familiar scent of wet soil, as if whispering, “Welcome home, Aditya.” Sweet memories, he realized, did not belong only to the past—they lived in his heart, accompanying him every step forward.