The house was alive with the sounds of Diwali—laughter, firecrackers, the clinking of plates, and the distant hum of bhajans from the temple down the street. The air smelled of burnt wicks and cardamom, of fresh rangoli powders and something deeper, something that had no scent but lingered anyway.

But for Amit, the house felt empty.

He sat at the dining table, stirring his kheer absently, watching the flame of a diya flicker on the windowsill. Meera sat across from him, her eyes soft, knowing.

“You should call him,” she said, quietly.

Amit kept his gaze on the flame. “Who?”

Meera sighed. “Don’t do that.”

He knew exactly who she meant. He had known since the morning when he had woken up with a weight on his chest that had nothing to do with sleep.

Raghu.

His best friend. The boy who had shared his childhood, who had stood beside him through every scraped knee, every stolen mango, every scolding from their teachers. The man who had left for the army five years ago and had never returned—not really, not in the way Amit had expected.

He had thought about calling him. Thought about it so many times that the thought had become a quiet, persistent ache inside him. But something always stopped him.

What if too much time had passed?
What if he had moved on?
What if they were no longer the same boys who had once thought the world was small enough to fit between them?

And so, he had let the silence grow.

Meera’s voice was gentle but firm. “Amit, you’ve let this go on long enough.”

Amit exhaled. Nodded. He reached for his phone, scrolling to a number he had never deleted, never changed. His thumb hovered over the call button.

And then, the doorbell rang.

Amit opened the door.

And there he was.


Raghu.

For a second, Amit forgot how to breathe. The man standing before him was familiar, yet different. His face was sharper, his eyes held something heavy, something old. But it wasn’t his face that made Amit’s stomach twist.

It was the wheelchair.

The man who had once outrun him in every race, who had climbed trees faster than he had ever dared, who had walked away five years ago, had returned without his legs.

Amit felt the earth tilt beneath him.

Raghu gave a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Are you going to let me in, or are we spending Diwali at your doorstep?”

Amit stepped aside numbly. “Come in.”

Raghu wheeled himself inside, his hands moving smoothly over the wheels, as if he had done it a thousand times. Meera gasped softly when she saw him, but she covered it quickly, walking forward and touching his shoulder.

“You should have come sooner,” she whispered.

Raghu gave her a small, tired grin. “I know.”

Then, he turned to Amit, something unreadable in his gaze.

“I thought about calling you,” he said. “A hundred times.”

Amit swallowed past the tightness in his throat. “So why didn’t you?”

Raghu’s smile faltered. “Because I didn’t want you to hear the wheels before you heard my voice.”

They sat on the balcony later, where the sky bloomed in reds and golds, where the city below shimmered with a million flickering lights.

Amit handed Raghu a diya. He hesitated for only a second before taking it, his fingers steady.

They sat in silence, watching the flame between them. And then, Raghu spoke.

“I lost them two years ago,” he said, looking out at the city. “There was an explosion. I remember falling, then waking up in a hospital, staring at empty sheets where my legs used to be.”

Amit didn’t speak. He couldn’t.

Raghu exhaled, shaking his head. “I thought about calling you so many times, Amit. But I didn’t know how to say it. How do you tell someone, ‘Hey, I’m back, but I’m not the same person who left’?”

Amit turned to him, his chest tight. “You are the same person.”

Raghu looked at him then, and in his eyes, Amit saw everything—the fear, the grief, the years lost in silence.

“I’m not,” Raghu said quietly. “But I wish I were.”

Amit gritted his teeth. “You should have called.”

Raghu smiled faintly. “So should you.”

Amit looked away. He thought of all the days he had spent missing his best friend but never picking up the phone. He thought of all the times he had told himself, If he wanted to talk, he would call me first.

And now, after all these years, Raghu was here. And Amit hadn’t called.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally.

Raghu looked at him for a long moment. Then he smiled, slow and real this time.

“Me too.”

Amit leaned forward, lighting the diya. The flame flickered, then steadied, casting a warm glow between them.

Raghu stared at it, his fingers brushing the clay edges. Then, suddenly, he laughed.

“What?” Amit asked.

Raghu smirked. “Remember how we used to race to light the first diya?”

Amit chuckled. “You always won.”

“You were just slow.”

“No, you cheated.”

Raghu laughed, the sound bright and alive. And for the first time in years, Amit felt something inside him ease.

He reached over and, without thinking, pulled Raghu into a hug. A real one. A brother’s embrace. Raghu stiffened for only a second before leaning into it.

Above them, the sky exploded in fireworks.

And somewhere between the light and the smoke, the past and the present, the boy Amit had once lost found his way home again.