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Home

His wife doesn't know, but there is a photograph tucked away in Karan's wallet he would carry for a very long time. When she does find it, it's faded and dog-eared, as if it had been taken out and admired in private many, many times.

It had been during the final trimester of her first pregnancy, and she had drifted off to sleep in the middle of painstakingly knitting small yellow socks. She was spending her time on the balcony, basking in the warm sunlight like a content cat when she drifted off to sleep, dreaming of a child's hysterical laughter and a warm, rare smile when he found her.

Karan pauses in taking off his jacket to admire the picture his wife makes: hair framing her small face, lashes brushing against lightly flushed, tired feet up on the ottoman, yellow maternity clothing lovingly clinging to the roundness of his child growing inside his wife.

Despite his doubts about settling down and getting married, if anyone had told him that he would get married at 39 and ever have a family, he would have laughed in their face - Karan is willing to try.

He stands still, unwilling to disturb her peace when suddenly he feels the urge to document this picturesque memory, to capture it in some tangible way. He fumbles around for his phone and, muting the volume, he takes a quick picture, admiring this memory, frozen in time, before setting the device down on the table and going to her.

He joins her, nudging an arm behind her and pulling her into a more comfortable position against his shoulder. She rouses with a sound of protest but immediately quiets when she registers his presence, settling back into drowsiness as she shifts to make herself comfortable.

He presses a kiss onto her forehead as his free hand immediately smoothes over her belly, greeting his kid in silence as he lets out a sigh of relief at holding his wife after a particularly stressful day at work.

He smiles into her hair as he feels a transient bump against his palm, his child's way of greeting him back. He closes his eyes, and thinks, I am finally home.

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Chanchal Yadav

My words paint a world where memories resurface, both beautiful and haunting. It's up to you to decide if you want to reminisce or rewrite.