In a small village nestled between golden fields and whispering woods, a boy named Aarav held tightly to a bright red kite. It was a gift from his grandfather—the last one they made together before the old man passed away. Every afternoon, Aarav would run up the hill and fly it, watching it dance and dip in the breeze.
But one summer day, dark clouds gathered quickly. A sudden gust snapped the string from Aarav’s hand, and the kite soared away into the stormy sky. Aarav ran for hours, chasing the red speck until it vanished into the clouds.
The next morning, after the storm cleared, Aarav found the kite tangled on the tallest tree. With the help of some villagers, he climbed and retrieved it, a little torn but still bold and red. He stitched it back with his grandmother’s thread and kept flying it every day—not just for fun, but to feel a little closer to the man who once told him, “Some things never really leave us—they just fly a little higher.”
And so, the last kite in the sky became a symbol of memory, love, and holding on—even when the wind tries to pull things away.