”The Silent Sentinel”
An old wooden cradle stood in the corner, a reminder of past events. Age had faded the once-detailed carvings that defined it. This cradle had witnessed the arrival of many generations leaving its mark on the worn wood. But now, it stood empty, mute, in a house that had fallen prey to disuse a sentinel.
The wind howled outside, rattling the windows and maintaining a chill that would have frozen one to the bone. A perfectly manicured garden now choked with weeds, where flowers had bloomed the summer before, was now only shrivelled remains of what they once were. A house that once warmed them with its bright glow of joy and affection turned into a shack empty of giggles and vitality
Inside, dust and rot filled the air. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling like ghosts, and grime covered the furniture. The house itself made the only sound of groaning as it settled. It leaned at an odd angle in the corner as if to remember the past. The detailed carvings seemed to move in the low light maybe telling the tale of the child who once slept in its safe embrace. Maya was the last kid to sleep in that cradle. She was smart and curious bringing joy and endless excitement to the house. Then one day, she vanished without a clue. Her parents were left with a deep hole in their hearts—a pain that would last forever.—and they moved to another city, as her father found himself a new job.
It had been years since her daughter Maya had disappeared, and the house soon disintegrated under the apathy of nature. The once-happy family members are away, each bearing the burden of their grief. The days that had passed, when their thoughts of the kid they loved but lost started to reflect in that old wooden cradle, had started to symbolise the days that had passed.
Days and years had slipped by, but Anaya had not forgotten Maya. She is indeed into her late thirties, but Maya is a lost part of her—a lost daughter. That is why she came today to her old house, hoping that, somehow, Maya would have returned, since from this very old house did, she leave. Maya has no idea about the new address at all. One of her friends, on hearing of Maya’s case, declared, “So Anaya has come back today with a motherly love in her heart and faith in her heart, has returned to her old home with the belief that Maya will come back to the place where Maya spent her childhood.” Anya stood beside the cradle, looking at the place empty where her baby once slept. Memories came rushing back to her mind, vivid, bittersweet. She remembered the day her daughter, Maya, was born she had been a small, pink bundle of the baby they had fallen in love with, overflowing with love. The cradle had been an ever-present friend in the early years of Maya’s life, one that soothed and reassured her.
As Maya had grown older, the cradle had been used less and the bigger bed had replaced it. But Anya had always kept it in the room, a sentimental reminder of her daughter’s childhood. Now, standing before the cradle, it seemed to symbolize all that had gone.
She then turned her gaze to the downcast toys scattered all over the floor: one teddy bear with mat fur and the other one with shabby clothes. The doll lay face down over the floor’s dusty, old tiles. They were tangible remnants of Maya’s childhood—something that narrated the story of a life unfulfilled, a life that was supposed to have been so full of promise.
Anya’s heart ached with the memory of the laughter that once filled this room. Maya’s laughter had been her greatest source of joy—an ever-present melody that sweetened all her days. Now, all that could be heard was the ticking of the clock, a relentless reminder of the passage of time.
Any swung over to the window and gazed out into the compiled. She could make out the swing set where Maya had earlier spent past her time. The way the swings were dull and hanging motionless seemed in contrast to the joyful activity this part had seen earlier.
Anya turned to go back into the room and walked across to the wall, where faint handprints marked the paint—testimony to Maya’s creativity and energy. She reached up to touch them, feeling for a moment that she could almost sense the warmth of her little girl’s hands.
Anya’s eyes welled with tears as she looked away. The child who had once filled the room with her laughs was now a distant memory. All that was left of her was the wooden cradle, the toys, the handprints.
Anya knelt next to the cradle; her hand outstretched to its smooth surface. Waves of calm emanated from it, washing over her. The crib, so emblematic of joy and loss, brought to mind the love she had shared with her daughter. And even though Maya was gone, her memory was never going to die from the heart of Anya.
As she stood there, lost in thought, she was startled as if by a sudden noise. She turned her head and saw a small, shadowy figure at the end of the hallway. Her heart skipped a beat when she realized that it was Maya, but a grown, mature woman now.
Anya stepped forward, arms open, and then tears streamed freely down her face as she pulled her child towards herself. They held each other for the briefest of moments, locked in each other’s bodies, and each of them cried into the other’s shoulder.
“I’m so sorry, “Maya, please forgive me. she murmured, so shaky and exhausted. I should have supported you. when you told me about your feelings for Mohit your love.
“Maya, I’m so sorry. I should have been there for you when you confessed your feelings. I was scared of your father and couldn’t be the friend and mother you needed. Please forgive me for not understanding you better.”I should not have never left you.”
Maya reached out, and clutching her mother’s hands, said softly, “It’s okay, Mom. I understand. You were just trying to protect me” as mother. Now at this stage of my life, I also understand your feelings.
They both sat down on the floor, Maya’s head resting on her mother’s shoulder. Maya was telling the mother of her life and the difficulties but also of the various moments felt in joy. She talked of her own children and how they had brought meaning into her life.
As they talked, it was as if the weights of years were being lifted from their shoulders. The laugh, the sound that had not been uttered in Maya’s presence in how many long years—the silence of the room seemed to mourn—came forcefully, joyously.
When it was her time to leave, she promised to come soon. Maya walked through the door as her daughter sauntered off down the path. A feeling of serenity overwhelmed her. What had been a wooden cradle of loss and regret now seemed a symbol of hope and reconciliation.