The Boy by the Window

Rain tapped softly against the wooden window frame as Kairo sat still, his chin barely lifted, his blue shirt rumpled from leaning too long against the desk. He wasn’t sad exactly—just caught in that quiet space where thoughts feel heavier than words.

Outside, the world smelled of rain and soil. The garden his grandmother tended every morning was glistening, the tomato plants bent under droplets, the vines clinging stubbornly to their poles. He had spent the entire summer helping her plant those seeds. He liked to watch them sprout—it felt like magic that something so tiny could push through earth and become real.

But today, the plants weren’t enough to distract him.

Tomorrow, Kairo would leave this wooden house—the only home he knew. His father had finally saved enough to move the family to the city. “Better schools, better chances,” his father said, his voice full of the hope that kept them going through long years of sacrifice.

Kairo wanted to feel that same hope, but instead his chest ached. He looked at the window where drops streaked down like trails of tears, and for the first time, he wondered if the plants would miss him.

Behind him, his grandmother shuffled in quietly. She carried a small clay pot, barely larger than her palm. Inside was a single green sprout, its two leaves trembling.

“This one’s for you,” she said, setting it gently on the windowsill. “Take it with you. So you won’t forget the soil here.”

Kairo touched the sprout carefully, afraid it might break under his fingers. It was so fragile, yet something about it felt brave.

“What is it?” he asked.

“A sunflower,” she replied. “They always turn to the sun, even on cloudy days.”

Kairo swallowed the lump in his throat. He wasn’t good at words, but he understood what she meant. He would have to turn to the sun too, even when the city felt unfamiliar, even when he missed the smell of rain on this wooden house.

That night, he packed the small pot last, wrapping it in his old shirt so it wouldn’t tip over.

The next morning, as the truck rumbled away from the house, Kairo held the sunflower on his lap, his fingers gripping the clay. He looked back only once—the garden, the window, the life he was leaving behind.

The sprout quivered in the motion of the truck, but it didn’t fall.

And in that moment, Kairo promised himself something quietly, something only the sunflower could hear:
“I’ll keep growing. Just like you.”