The Empty Swing

The Empty Swing

Even after all these years, her laughter still echoes in the wind.

It was a quiet Sunday morning when Imran returned to the old park.

The gates creaked open just like they used to years ago, but the voices were missing—the ones filled with laughter, excitement, and little footsteps chasing butterflies. The park was nearly empty, but he knew exactly where he was going.

Straight to the far corner, near the big neem tree.

There it was.

The swing.

Old, a bit rusty, and silent.

But to him, it still sang with memories.

He sat on the nearby bench, pulling his coat tighter. The morning chill wasn’t the reason for the shiver running down his spine.

It was the memory of her.

Areeba—his daughter.

She was seven when he last pushed that swing. Her giggles could melt the hardest of hearts. Every Sunday, rain or shine, they'd come to this park. She’d race him to the swing, demanding to be pushed “higher than the clouds.” And he would, pretending to be a rocket launcher while she squealed with joy.

She loved stories. Every night, she’d crawl into his lap and ask for “one with princesses and dragons,” and he’d always make one up. She believed her papa could do anything—fight monsters, make rainbows, catch stars.

She was his whole world, the light in every corner of his life.

Then came that winter.

The cough wouldn’t go away. The doctors said “just a cold.” But a week later, they said “leukemia.”

He remembered everything—the hospital lights, her pale face, the needles, the hope, the pain… and eventually, the silence. The machines that once beeped rhythmically had gone still. Her small hand, once so full of energy, slipped from his.

It’s been five years since she left.

But he still came every Sunday.

At first, people tried to talk him out of it—his friends, even his wife. But grief doesn’t listen to logic. It clings to rituals. And for him, this bench, this swing, this corner of the park—it was all he had left.

He remembered how, during the worst nights, when she was too weak to speak, she would still try to smile at him. That soft curve of her lips—brave, beautiful, heartbreaking.

Sometimes he wondered if he did enough. If he prayed hard enough. If he had just one more moment, would he hold her longer? Would he tell her more stories? Would he trade places if he could?

Today, something was different.

As he sat there, an elderly woman walked by with her granddaughter. The little girl looked at the swing and hesitated.

Imran smiled gently and said, “Would you like a push?”

The girl nodded shyly.

And for the first time in years, he stood up and took hold of the swing’s ropes.

As he pushed the girl, the laughter that erupted felt like sunlight breaking through clouds. It wasn’t Areeba’s voice—but it carried the same joy, the same magic. He closed his eyes and, for a fleeting second, imagined it was her again—flying through the air, fearless and free.

For a moment, he felt her again.

Later, the grandmother thanked him. “You’re very kind.”

Imran looked back at the swing and whispered, “No… I’m just remembering.”

That night, he went home and opened the small wooden box he hadn’t touched in years. Inside were Areeba’s drawings, a strand of her hair, her favorite pink hairclip, and a folded piece of paper—a letter she’d written with crayons:

“To Papa, I love you to the stars and back. You’re my hero. Always push me higher.”

He pressed it to his chest and wept—not just for her absence, but for all the love that still lived in him.

Because grief is love with nowhere to go.

And in that moment, he realized… maybe the swing was never empty.

Maybe love never truly leaves.

Maybe, every push of that swing was her saying:

“I’m still here, Papa. I’m still flying.”