Every morning, Ayaan gently kissed his mother’s forehead before leaving for school. She had raised him alone, working late shifts, skipping meals so he could eat, smiling through her pain just to keep him strong.
On his 12th birthday, he handed her a crumpled envelope. Inside was a note:
"One day I’ll buy you a house, so you never have to work again. Love, Ayaan."
She hugged him tightly, tears silently falling.
Years passed. His mother grew weaker, her hands trembling from years of hard labor. Ayaan, now a young man, studied by candlelight and worked after school. He never complained. His dream was clear.
On the day he received his first salary, he didn’t buy clothes or gadgets. Instead, he brought home her favorite food, knelt beside her bed, and whispered, “This is just the beginning, Amma.”
She smiled faintly, whispering, “You’ve already given me the world.”
That night, she passed away in her sleep—peaceful, proud, loved.
Ayaan stood beside her grave, holding that same crumpled note.
“I couldn’t buy the house, Amma… but I hope I built a home in your heart.”
And the wind, gentle and warm, seemed to embrace him back.