The door was as usual closed. Dad always kept the library door closed, banning anyone from coming inside. Except for me of course. I was an exception.

I remember running through the corridors, shuffling with those heavily bonded books and begging Dad to let me read the ones on his table. He would always say, in his deep baritone,

"Not now Kanak. You need to grow up for these."

Am I grown up enough? How would I know?

"You will know when the time comes. When you know how to tackle your inner demons and embrace them."

Dad always talked like this. He was very philosophical which gave way for me to get a degree in philosophy.

I trace my fingertips on his mahogany table. Ma still kept this place clean. The books, however, must have had dust on them. There were a few books on the table. Shakespeare's Hamlet, a book of John Keats's poems and Tuesdays With Morrie book.

I read Tuesdays with Morrie when I was small. Although I never understood the heavy subject it tackles, I was fascinated by how we need to depend on others when we fail to depend on ourselves. Of course, my teenage mind couldn't understand the depth of these emotions but still, I tried.

The room's smell remained the same. How is it possible when the person it belongs to is long gone? No trace of him could be found? Although, Ma says otherwise,

"He is here, in all our hearts."

I sit on the chair, leaning on its leather back. The headrest was broken as before. Dad never fixed it. It still made that squeaking sound when I turn on it. I imagine my small self sitting right in front of this chair, looking at Dad with curious, Bambi like eyes, gathering all the world's knowledge at once.

A gush of emotions hit me as I gaze around the whole room. But I don't cry.

A family portrait was kept on the table. He never changed the old frame. I picked it up and grazed my finger over his face. He was so young and handsome. A drop of tear falls on it and I keep it the way it was before.

I cannot cry. I shouldn't cry. I don't deserve to cry.

I get up to leave the room. Too many memories made me feel that I could be that me again. I was wrong. As I step out, I hear Shahid and Ma talk.

About me.