Whispers of Yesterday
Category A: Highly Commended (2025) Monash Short Story Writing Competition
Author: Moukthika Balaganesh
The smallest shard of light entered through a crack in the drapes covering the window, illuminating a small rectangular frame. There sat a man, hunched in a large oak chair. On his lap rested a knitted, maroon blanket. He couldn’t remember how he got it, but it was warm - and that was enough.
A glint of light caught the man’s eye and drew his gaze to where a photo frame sat untouched. He couldn’t understand why it seemed to call to him or make his hand twitch toward it. As he brushed the edge of the frame, his fingers trembled, and he could hear his breath hitch. With a shaky exhale, he blew over the frame, and dust scattered into the air like ash.
In the picture were four faces staring back at him. A young woman with the kindest eyes he had ever seen, sitting beside two little girls holding a flower each, a twinkle in their eyes. But next to them, was a man with light brown hair and a smile with a little crinkle by his right eye he could swear he had seen before.
The sight of the small family pulled at something buried deep in the recess of the man’s mind.
He blinked once.
Twice.
Then a third time.
Despite all his efforts, the names evaded him. Hovering just out of reach.
His fingers touched the smudged glass of the frame, and something flickered through his mind. The soft chime of laughter, the echo of giggles, the sun’s warmth on his skin, and the scent of daisies floating through a summer breeze.
The man’s eyes fluttered closed as he grasped for moments that had been buried too long. But then -nothing. Nothing but a light static and a blank wall where the rest of his life should have formed images, so vibrant with colours, and bursting with sounds of joy.
Before he even noticed a cold tear ran down his cheek, carving a path through his skin.
A soft knock startled the man out of his reverie.
A woman stood there by the door, her face similar to one of the girls in the picture – older, yet unmistakably the same. She padded toward him, knelt by his chair and took his hand. Her eyes no longer held the same twinkle of mischief as in the photo, but they were gentle nonetheless.
“Hi Dad, it’s me,” the woman said softly.
The man opened his mouth, then closed it again, as though the words he wanted to say would simply not come out.
The woman shook her head softly. “It’s ok Dad.’
And so, together, they watched the blue of the sky transform into vibrant hues of reds and oranges until the colour of ink swallowed the horizon. The entire time she sat by him, holding his hand, as the warmth of the blanket and the light rocking of his chair faded and soon his eyes closed heavily for the last time.