Till The Day They Return

In the quiet hours before dawn, when the world slumbers and the stars still shimmer, there stands a father—a solitary figure on the precipice of memory and longing. His heart, a vessel of ache, spills over with the weight of absence.

The children he once cradled in his arms, their laughter like chimes in a forgotten garden, have vanished. Their footsteps, once imprinted on dew-kissed grass, now echo only in the chambers of his soul. How did they slip away? Was it the lure of distant realms, the siren call of adventure? Or did they become whispers carried by the wind, secrets buried beneath the gnarled roots of an ancient oak?

He roams the forest’s edge, tracing the contours of each leaf, hoping to find their imprint. The moon, a silver sentinel, bathes the landscape in ethereal light. He calls their names—soft syllables that float like fallen petals. But the forest remains silent, its secrets guarded by ancient sentinels who remember when the world was young.

His heart, a cartographer of grief, maps the tear-stained trails he treads. Each step is a prayer, a plea to the cosmos: Bring them back. Let their laughter ripple through the meadows once more. Let their small hands find refuge in his, their dreams woven into the fabric of existence.

The stars, indifferent witnesses to his sorrow, blink in cosmic rhythm. They know not of earthly bonds or the ache of separation. Yet he gazes upward, seeking solace in their distant light. Perhaps they hold the answers—the constellations etching stories across the velvet canvas of night.

And so he waits, beside the hearth where their laughter once danced. The chairs remain empty, their absence etched into the grain of polished wood. He whispers lullabies into the fire’s crackle, hoping the flames will carry his love across the veil. Maybe they’ll hear him, wherever they are—two lost souls navigating the vast expanse of existence.

For a father’s love transcends time and space. It weaves constellations from memories, stitches hope into the fabric of longing. And so he stands, a sentinel of love, tracing the arc of stars. Till the day they return—his children, his heart’s compass—when the forest sighs and the wind carries their laughter home.