The Room with the Blue Curtains

Every morning, Meher would open the window in the small bedroom at the end of the hall, letting sunlight fall softly across the bed with the blue curtains fluttering in the breeze. That room hadn’t changed in two years—not since Arman, her 8-year-old son, passed away.

His books were still on the shelf, his drawing of a crooked sun still taped to the wardrobe. His shoes, a little dusty now, waited by the door like he might wear them again.

People told her to let go. "You need to move on, Meher. It’s not healthy."

But how do you "move on" from someone who was your whole sky?

She still remembered the last time he laughed. He had been playing in the rain, jumping in puddles. “Mama, look!” he shouted, soaked and glowing with life. That night, he got a fever. Three days later, he was gone.

No time to say goodbye. No time to explain to a mother why her universe had collapsed.

Now, she talked to him in whispers. Told him what the sky looked like, what the neighbor’s dog did, how the roses had bloomed early this year. It was her way of surviving.

Then one day, a neighborhood child peeked into the room and asked, “Whose room is this?”

Meher paused. Her throat tightened. She looked at the room—the small bed, the blue curtains swaying gently like a memory—and replied, “It belonged to someone I loved more than anything.”

And she closed the door quietly, leaving the sunlight behind.