The city never slept.
Cars moved endlessly on the bright roads, people rushed to their offices, and everyone seemed busy chasing their dreams.
Among them was a young man named Ayan.
Ayan lived in a small apartment in the middle of the city. He had a stable job in a company and a life that many people dreamed of. Every morning he woke up early, dressed quickly, and hurried to work.
His life was full of meetings, deadlines, and endless phone calls.
But far away from the noisy city, in a quiet village, someone waited for him every day.
Ayan's father.
The old man lived alone in a small house at the end of the village road. The house was simple, with old wooden doors and a small garden in front.
Every evening, after finishing his small chores, the old man would sit near the window with his phone in his hand.
He waited for only one thing.
A call from his son.
Sometimes he looked at the phone and smiled softly.
"Maybe he is busy today," he would whisper to himself.
Back in the city, Ayan was sitting in his office, typing quickly on his computer.
His phone started ringing.
The screen showed a familiar name.
"Baba Calling."
Ayan looked at the phone for a moment.
Then he sighed.
"I'll call him later," he murmured and put the phone back on the table.
The phone kept ringing for a few seconds… and then it stopped.
In the village, the old man slowly lowered the phone from his ear.
For a moment, the small house felt even quieter.
But he didn't feel angry.
Instead, he smiled gently.
"My son must be very busy," he said softly.
That night, under the dim yellow light of a small lamp, the old man took out a piece of paper.
With slightly shaking hands, he started writing a letter.
"Dear Ayan,
I hope you are doing well in the city…"
Little did Ayan know…
Those letters would one day become the words he wished he had read sooner.