The sky had begun to change. From a deep, endless blue, it melted into soft hues of pink and gold, as if an unseen hand had taken up its brush and begun to paint the eastern sky. In the quiet of the mountain evening, little Ayaan sat on the wooden steps of his grandmother’s cottage, his bare feet dusted with earth, his small hands wrapped around a warm cup of milk.
“Dadi,” he whispered, “why does the sky turn golden in the evening?”
His grandmother, old and wise like the hills themselves, smiled and pointed to the ridge beyond the meadows. “Because, my child, it is the hour when the mountain butterflies come flying home. And God, in His kindness, paints a path for them to follow.”
Ayaan turned his gaze toward the ridge, where he had spent countless afternoons chasing butterflies through the wildflowers. He imagined them now, wings shimmering like flakes of the setting sun, returning home to their secret resting places in the forests beyond.
The thought made him sad in a way he could not explain. “Do they always come back?” he asked softly.
Dadi’s smile faded for a moment, her gaze drifting toward the horizon. “Not always,” she admitted. “Sometimes the wind carries them too far, sometimes the rain drowns them, and sometimes they forget the way.” She sighed and ran her fingers through Ayaan’s unruly hair. “But the ones that remember, they always find their way home.”
Ayaan nodded, even though his heart ached a little. He was thinking of his father, who had left for the city many years ago and never returned. His letters had grown fewer, his promises thinner, until they, too, disappeared like the butterflies lost in the wind.
One evening, as the clouds turned to fire and the sky became a canvas of light, Ayaan saw something different. A lone butterfly, its wings tattered and slow, struggling against the mountain breeze. It wavered, almost falling, but then—guided by the painted sky—it found its way over the ridge and into the meadow.
His heart leapt. He turned to his grandmother, his voice trembling. “Dadi! It made it home!”
She smiled through eyes that glistened. “Yes, my child. The ones who remember, they always do.”
That night, Ayaan lay awake beneath the vast, star-speckled sky, listening to the whisper of the wind through the trees. He thought of the butterfly, of the golden sky, and of his father—somewhere far beyond the hills.
And for the first time in years, he believed.
Somewhere, someday, his father, too, would find his way home.
A few days later, just as the sun dipped below the horizon, Ayaan heard footsteps on the old, winding path leading to their cottage. He ran outside, breathless, his heart pounding in his chest. And there, silhouetted against the painted sky, stood a weary traveler—his father, eyes filled with years of longing, arms open wide.
Tears streamed down Ayaan’s face as he rushed into his father’s embrace, feeling the warmth of home in his arms. Dadi watched from the steps, her hands clasped together, her lips quivering in silent gratitude. The sky above gleamed in brilliant gold, as if God Himself had dipped His brush one last time—to welcome another lost soul home.
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