The Painter of Sunrises

Every morning before the world was awake, there was a man who climbed the eastern hill carrying a small wooden box filled with paints. His name was Sikandar, but the people in town simply called him The Painter of Sunrises. Nobody remembered when he started painting. Some said it had been ten years, others said twenty. But everyone knew one thing clearly — he never missed a dawn.

For him, the sunrise wasn’t just a moment.

It was a promise.

Even on days when clouds covered the sky, he sat quietly on the hill, brushes ready, eyes soft, waiting for the smallest shade of gold to appear. And if it didn’t, he painted what he felt the sunrise would have been.

To him, light was not a sight — it was a memory.

One chilly morning, as Sikandar set up his canvas, he noticed a small figure sitting a few steps away. A girl, maybe fourteen or fifteen, hugging a backpack tightly to her chest. Her eyes were swollen from crying, though she tried her best to hide it.

He paused, unsure, then spoke gently.

“You’re up early.”

The girl didn’t respond.

Sikandar began mixing colors anyway. After a long silence, she finally whispered,

“Do sunrises really matter this much?”

He stopped mid–brushstroke.

“More than you know.”

She looked at him, confused. “Why?”

He smiled softly, the kind of smile that held more stories than words.

“When the world feels heavy, dawn reminds us that nothing stays dark forever.”

The girl’s eyes lowered. “What if my darkness never ends?”

He placed the brush down. “Then you stay until the light finds you.”

For the first time, she glanced at his painting. Golden, pink, soft orange — colors melting like hope. Her voice cracked.

“I… I failed my exams. My father yelled. He said I’m wasting my life.”

A tear slipped down her cheek.

“He said I’ll never become anything.”

Sikandar nodded slowly, as if he understood too well.

“My father used to say the same thing.”

She turned to him. “And? What happened?”

He laughed lightly. “I became a sunrise painter. Not exactly the career he had hoped for.”

“But… he didn’t stop you?”

“Oh, he tried.” His eyes softened. “We fought. I left home for a while. But in the end, he understood. Fathers usually do — but sometimes they need time.”

The girl’s face softened, but worry still clung to her voice.

“What if mine never understands?”

“Then you’ll show him,” Sikandar said, “that you are more than one bad exam.”

She looked down at her hands. “I thought of running away… this morning.”

Sikandar paused. The wind grew still.

“Are you still thinking about it?” he asked quietly.

She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

He closed his paint box gently.

“Come with me.”

They walked down the hill. Halfway, he stopped at an old bench facing the sky. A rusted plaque read:

“Dedicated to Zara — who taught me how to see light again.”

The girl ran her fingers over the name. “Who was she?”

Sikandar inhaled deeply.

“My daughter.”

Her eyes widened. “Where is she?”

He looked at the horizon.

“She passed away when she was sixteen.”

The world froze. The girl swallowed the lump in her throat.

“She loved sunrises,” Sikandar continued, “and when I lost her, I stopped painting… stopped living, really.

The girl whispered, “How did you survive it?”

He gave a long, quiet answer.

“Because one morning, I realized the sun still rose — even when I couldn’t. So I started painting it. Every day. For her. And for myself.”

The girl’s tears flowed freely now.

“Is that why you come here every morning?”

“Yes,” he said gently. “To remember that endings are not always final.”

They stood in silence as the sun began climbing fully into the sky.

Warm. Soft. Healing.

A new day.

The girl exhaled shakily.

“I… I want to try again. I don’t want to give up.”

Sikandar smiled, feeling a familiar warmth — the same warmth Zara used to bring.

“Good. That’s the best sunrise you can paint today.”

The girl laughed weakly. “Can I come again? To watch the sunrise with you?”

He nodded. “Anytime.”

And she did.

For days.

Then weeks.

Then months.

She brought her sketchbook, learning to draw, color, shape emotions into art. Sikandar taught her everything he knew — not only about painting, but about patience, healing, and hope.

Slowly, she rebuilt her confidence.

One morning, her father came to the hill, breathless and worried. The girl froze, fearing anger. But instead, he spoke with trembling eyes:

“I looked everywhere for you. You scared me.”

She lowered her gaze. “I’m sorry.”

Her father approached carefully, seeing the paintings around her — soft colors, gentle strokes, glimpses of sunrises she had painted.

“You… you did these?”

She nodded nervously.

Something in her father broke — a quiet, beautiful breaking.

“I didn’t know you had this in you,” he whispered.

She swallowed. “I thought… you didn’t believe in me.”

He hugged her tightly.

“I was wrong.”

Sikandar stepped back quietly, giving them space.

From then on, father and daughter visited the hill together. Sometimes one came, sometimes both — but they were healing, slowly, honestly.

And every morning, the sun still rose.

Every morning, Sikandar painted.

Every morning, another promise was written across the sky:

Light always returns.

And sometimes,

it comes in the shape of a teacher…

a troubled child…

a sunrise…

or a second chance.