Daru loved you more than anything that existed on this earth. But Daru was not like most fathers. He lived in a quiet, different world—his thoughts ran in patterns that others couldn’t always follow. He was autistic, gentle yet easily overwhelmed, his world carefully built from routines and silence.

When you were born, your mother left. One morning, she simply disappeared, leaving Daru standing alone by the roadside with you asleep in his trembling arms. The city roared around him—honking cars, shouting vendors, colors and noises all blurring together—but Daru’s eyes only saw one thing: your tiny face, peaceful and soft against his chest.

“Shh… baby sleep,” he whispered awkwardly, rocking you the way he’d seen on TV. “Daddy… here. Papa won’t go.”

From that day, every step Daru took was for you. He didn’t understand all the ways of the world, but he tried, again and again. When you cried at night, his mind spun in panic. He would walk in circles, whispering, “No cry, please, no cry,” until a kind neighbor—a middle-aged woman came knocking.

“Daru, it’s okay,” she said gently, showing him how to cradle you properly. “Like this. Rock slowly… there you go. She needs to feel safe.”

Daru watched her hands carefully, mimicking every movement like a student afraid to forget a lesson. When you finally stopped crying, he smiled, small and shy, as though he had just learned magic.

Days became months. Daru worked wherever he could—sweeping the small shop down the street, carrying boxes for the fruit vendor, cleaning tables at a café—always with you strapped to his chest in a sling. When people stared, he didn’t look back. He only patted your back.

Though words were never his strength, love was. His friends—men and women who also had their own struggles—loved you too. They would gather in the park on Sundays, sitting together with laughter that was sometimes too loud, sometimes offbeat, but always kind. You would run around while they clapped and cheered.

“Look, Daru’s girl! So pretty!” Daru smiled, his eyes lighting up. “Yes. My girl. My pretty girl.”

Years passed, and the day finally came for you to go to school. Daru was both proud and anxious. The night before, he barely slept—he laid out your uniform again and again, brushing off imaginary dust, smoothing the small pleats of your skirt.

The next morning, he took your hand and led you to a small shoe shop downtown, his friends trailing behind like a cheerful parade. Inside, your eyes caught a pair of black shoes with tiny ribbons—simple, but perfect.

Daru picked them up carefully, turning them over in his hands. “You like? Pretty shoes for… pretty girl?”

You nodded eagerly. “Yes, Papa!”

At the counter, Daru counted his money slowly—coins and small bills, some wrinkled and worn. When the cashier told him the price, he froze. His fingers trembled. There wasn’t enough. He blinked hard, his lips pressing together, confusion and worry washing over his face.

“It’s okay,” murmured one of his friends, a man with a gentle stutter. “We help. We all help.”

They each pulled out small crumpled notes from their pockets—money saved from odd jobs. The cashier watched, her eyes softening as the pile grew. It was still short, but she smiled and nodded.

“Looks like today’s a lucky day,” she said quietly. “You can take them.”

Daru’s eyes widened. “Take… shoes? For her?”

“Yes. For her,” the cashier said, her voice thick with emotion.

He turned to you, kneeling down so his eyes met yours. His words came slow, deliberate, as he slipped the shoes onto your feet. “See? Fit perfect. My girl ready for school.”