Was there ever a day where everything was sad but everything was going by so fast that your emotions couldn’t catch up? 2nd grade was one of the hardest years of my life.

In my classroom, I remember my teacher answering the phone. She hung up and looked at me. Her face had a serious, yet compassionate look; as if she could feel my emotions inside of me and was already trying to comfort them. Then she said, “ Go ahead and head to the office, your parents are picking you up early today.”

I leave the classroom with an odd feeling. I know something's wrong; I just don't know what. I walk down the long hall. The quiet seems sinister. I'm not used to being in the hall while the other kids are in their classes. I approach my locker, entering the four digit combo. I grab my backpack from inside. closing it with a gentle creak, so as not to disturb the silence. I continue down the expansive hallway, heading toward the office. Each step my feet make echos with a mounting intensity. The odd feeling begins to morph into fear. Something is definitely wrong now. My pace gets quicker. The office door is just ahead. I'm nearly there. Ten steps away. I grab the handle, slipping inside. The door closes behind me with a soft thud.
The principal sits behind a desk. "Ah Hanna, there you are. Your parents should be here shortly," He says.
"Principal Abercrombie, Am I in trouble?"
The principal's face softens, "No. Not at all."
"Then could you tell me why I'm here?"
"Well–" he shifts his gaze away from me. "it's best I let your parents explain it to you."
"Ok…" An uneasy feeling settles over me once again. I wait with bated breath, for what seems like an eternity.

The office door opens. Mom and dad are standing in the doorway, their faces ashen. Now I know something is wrong. "What is it?" I inquire.
Mom gives me an uneasy look, she tries to hide it with a smile, but I know—I can always tell when something's off. Dad gives principal Abercrombie a brief greeting before turning to me. "Ready to go kiddo?" His face is the same as Mom's, although he does a better job of hiding it—I can't always tell what he's feeling.
"Ok," I agree. The three of us walk out to the parking lot. I can feel it radiating off of them, like a sickening stench. When we get to the car, I get in the back seat like always. Mom and Dad also get into the back, on either side of me—weird. The air feels heavy.
"Honey," Mom utters in a fragile voice. "There's no easy way to tell you this…" Long silence. Deafening. "Your grandfather has just passed away."
My world spins. The air is noxious. I can't breathe. I choke, tears streaming down my face. I try to scream, sound won't come out. I lean over and burry myself into mom. Dad is always a comforting presence, but right now I need mommy. I can't breath. Only tears, only pain. I now know what the feeling from earlier was, Grandfather's receding warmth. In my mind I see his smile, hear his laughter, feel his grace—I'll never know them again. I'm not sure how long Mom and I stay in the backseat, clutching each other for. I become vaguely aware of the vehicle moving. Dad must have gotten into the driver's seat. The drive home never felt so long.

I don't really have any time to process it before we arrive at the airport. I open my mouth to panic about not having packed, when Mum pulls out a small pink suitcase form the back. She's done it for me, I think, as I clutch her hand in the queue. There's a smiley looking lady with pretty red lipstick and high-heels behind the check-in desk, who looks at our passports, and says 'enjoy your holiday!' as we trudge over to the escalator. Dad presses his lips together into a type of smile, and thanks her.

"Mum? How long is it to get there"?

"Six hours, Hanna," Mum replies, as she slips her hand sanitizer and lipstick into a little clear bag, and drops my backpack into a plastic tray on a conveyor belt.

She walks through a big beeping arch thing, which Dad says is called a metal detector. He says they're there to keep us safe, and make sure no one brings anything dangerous onto the plane. An official looking man in a uniform and blue gloves like they have at the dentist waves Dad over, and my heart does a funny little flip. Dad pats my head and tells me not to worry. He spends a long time with the uniformed-man, who runs a white wand across his laptop, and hands, before sending him back. He zips up his bag, and is muttering to Mum under his breath about 'random checks' and 'profiling'.

We reach what Dad calls the 'gate', but it doesn't look all that much like a gate to me. There's rows of uncomfy seats, and boring TVs on the walls that only say things like the names of cities and 'GATE PENDING' or 'NOW BOARDING' or 'DELAYED'. Mum even buys me a McDonalds, which almost makes me stop being sad. When the lady on the speakers crackles and says ' now boarding, the 3.15 flight to Mumbai', Mum takes my hand again, and another pretty lady checks my passport.

"Hanna Khan?" She asks, looking at Mum.

I look up and wave.

"Brilliant, hi Hanna. Enjoy your flight!"

We shuffle down the long corridor, and onto the plane. I find my seat, and point at the little TV stuck to the back of the chair in front of me.

"Look, Mum! They have a TV!"

Mum smiles tiredly. "Yeah. You can watch Finding Nemo."

I put my seatbelt on and wait to take off. Dad always said he was going to take me to India when I was older, before I start secondary school, to meet my cousin, and aunties, and uncles...and grandparents. It's four years too early, and I don't even get to meet mt grandad. I've never gone to India before, though, and I think I'm excited. I really hope it's not too hot, or grandad's body might rot, like when you don't put meat in the fridge quick enough.

The moment the plane doors open, the air hits me like someone’s turned a giant hairdryer on full blast. It’s thick and warm and smells like spices, and smoke, and something sweet I can’t name. Mum squeezes my shoulder as we shuffle down the steps onto the runway. The sky is a hazy orange, like the sun’s been smudged with chalk. Dad keeps glancing at me, like he’s checking I’m still here.

Inside the airport, everything is loud. People talk fast, in English and Hindi and other languages I don’t recognise. Someone shouts “Taxi! Taxi!” over and over. I cling to Mum’s hand so tightly she winces, but she doesn’t let go. We walk through the big glass doors into the arrivals area, and suddenly a whole crowd of people rushes toward us. I freeze. Mum kneels beside me.

“Hanna,” she whispers, brushing my hair behind my ear. “These are your aunties and uncles.”

A woman in a bright yellow sari steps forward first. Her eyes are shiny, like she’s been crying for days. She cups my face in both hands and kisses my forehead.

“My sweet girl,” she murmurs. “You look just like him.”

I don’t know what to say, so I just nod.

Then a man with a big moustache lifts me clean off the ground in a hug that squeezes the air out of me. “I am your Uncle Ravi!” he booms. “You are so tall! Last time I saw you, you were this big.” He holds his hand somewhere near his knee.

“I’ve never met you,” I mumble, but he just laughs and puts me down gently.

Everyone talks at once--Are you tired? Are you hungry? How was the flight?--and I feel like a tiny boat in a storm. Mum keeps a hand on my back, steadying me.

We pile into two cars because there are too many of us for one. I sit between Mum and Auntie Priya, who keeps offering me spicy crunchy snacks from a little tin. The city outside the window is chaos, cars honking, scooters weaving between buses, cows stood in the road like they own it. Everything is bright and noisy and alive, but inside the car, it’s quiet and heavy, like the air back home in the office.

When we reach the house, there are even more people waiting. Some are crying. Some are whispering. Some look at me with soft, sad eyes. I don’t know where to look, so I stare at my shoes. Auntie Priya leads me inside. The house smells like incense and there are marigold flowers everywhere, bright orange and yellow, like tiny suns. In the living room, candles flicker around a framed photo of Grandad. He’s smiling in it. The same smile I saw in my head in the car.

A priest in white robes sits cross‑legged on the floor, chanting something low and rhythmic. I don’t understand the words, but they make the room feel calmer, like the sound is holding everyone together.

Dad kneels beside me. “This is part of the funeral rites,” he explains softly. “In Hindu tradition, we help the soul find peace. We pray, we light lamps, we offer flowers. It’s our way of guiding him onward.”

I swallow hard. “Is he… here?”

Dad nods. “In a way. We believe the soul stays close for a little while. So we honour him. We show him love. We help him let go.”

I look at the photo again. Grandad’s eyes crinkle at the corners, like he’s laughing at one of his own jokes. I feel my throat tighten.

Auntie Priya places a marigold in my hand. “Go on, beta,” she whispers. “Give it to him.”

My fingers shake as I step forward. I place the flower at the base of the frame. For a moment, everything goes quiet. It’s just me and him.

“Hi, Grandad,” I whisper. “I’m here.”

The silence breaks. Someone sniffles, while someone else murmurs a prayer.

Mum wraps her arms around me from behind, resting her chin on my head. “You did beautifully,” she says.

I don’t feel beautiful. I feel cracked open. But maybe that’s what this is supposed to feel like.