In the heart of every school lies a space not etched into the timetable but forever carved into memory — the square. Paved with old tiles worn smooth by countless feet. It is a living memory, a quiet observer of childhood in all its fleeting glory.
During break hours, the square comes alive. The younger students pour into it like a stream breaking its dam — their voices a melody of excitement, their games full of invention.
On the edges of this cheerful chaos stand the older students — quieter now, taller, their uniforms a little neater, their voices a little lower. But their eyes drift, often unconsciously, to the younger ones.
There is a particular kind of silence shared among them — not the silence of boredom, but of memory. Because not long ago, they too ran across that square. They too once argued over whose turn it was, fell and laughed, made rules that made no sense but were sacred in that moment. Now, watching the younger children, something stirs — a soft ache, a smile they don’t show. It’s not just nostalgia. It’s recognition.
Time moves forward in schools, but the square — that little piece of ground — remains unchanged.
Priyadarshini Pandey
XI A