lunch break, Aryan had almost managed to feel like a normal student again.
Almost.
He was copying a math problem from the board when the classroom door creaked open and the office attender stepped inside.
"Aryan Kumar?" he called.
Thirty heads turned at once.
Aryan straightened, stiff.
"Yes, sir."
"Principal office side. Come now."
Ms. Devi looked up. "Take your things. And walk—don't run."
The class erupted immediately.
"What he did?"
"Dhara sir called him?"
"Maybe he hacked the CCTV."
"Idiot, he doesn't even have phone—"
Aryan tuned all of it out.
He bent down, opened his bag, and pulled out the thin file he'd been carrying everywhere these past days—
Aditi's final layout,
Harish's permit line,
his own revised pitch points.
His fingers brushed the edge of the paper.
Steady.
Mostly.
He stepped into the corridor, the buzz of the classroom fading behind him.
He didn't notice that Riya, sitting two benches behind him, had closed her textbook only halfway.
Her eyes followed him silently—first the file, then his face—before she snapped the book shut with a quiet exhale.
The admin block hallway always felt colder.
Today, it felt heavier.
Almost like every tile he stepped on was testing him.
If this doesn't pass…
the pitch dies.
The roof stays.
And this entire domain path becomes pointless.
His mind kept running ahead.
He forced himself to slow down.
Left. Right. Breathe.
At the board outside the principal's chamber, a list of names hung neatly.
His eyes caught on one.
Associate Principal — Academics
Mr. Prakash Anand
Not Vice Head.
Not friendly.
A man known for being sharp, calculating, and allergic to half-baked ideas.
Perfect.
The clerk at the desk glanced up.
"Name?"
"Aryan Kumar. Class 5."
The clerk checked his register.
"Proposal review? Gate plan?"
Aryan nodded.
"Go in. He's free."
Free.
Aryan doubted that.
He knocked once and stepped inside.
The office wasn't large, but it was organized with military precision.
Files arranged like soldiers.
A large wall clock ticking too loudly.
A framed photograph of the first graduating batch of Vidyashree.
Prakash sir sat behind the desk, glasses low on his nose, checking green answer sheets with fast, efficient movements.
He didn't look up.
"Close the door," he said.
The door clicked shut.
Now the clock sounded louder than before.
Tick.
Tick.
Prakash finally looked up.
His gaze was sharp—clean, mathematical, like he was already measuring Aryan's confidence from the way he stood.
"So," he said.
"Aryan Kumar."
"Yes, sir."
"Class 5. Business & Management domain."
"Yes, sir."
"And you are the boy who wants to reorganize my school gate."
Aryan's throat tightened.
He didn't mean to say it, but the words slipped out, soft but firm:
"It's not… your gate, sir. It's everyone's."
A pause.
One corner of Prakash's mouth twitched—not a smile, but an acknowledgment.
"Sit."
Aryan sat. File on his lap. Back straight. Eyes level.
"Explain," Prakash said, tapping the desk with a pen.
"But no jargon. No over-smart English. Tell me like you're explaining to someone in the market."
Aryan nodded slowly.
He breathed.
And began.
The Pitch
"Sir… right now the vendors stand directly near the gate. The path becomes narrow. Students cross the road. Cars get stuck. Guard sir can't manage alone. Parents blame the school."
Prakash didn't move.
Aryan continued.
"Vendors need to earn. School needs to look clean. Parents need safety. So I made a layout."
He opened the file and slid Aditi's drawing forward.
The clean pencil lines.
The clear Gate Zone boundary.
The marked Vendor Support Area.
Prakash's eyes scanned the sheet quickly.
"Good drawing. Who did this?"
"Aditi, sir. Classmate. Arts domain."
"Hm. She has perspective sense."
"She sees things properly," Aryan said before thinking.
Prakash heard it.
"And this area? 'Vendor Support'?"
"We shift them inside the wall but away from the main walkway. Marked spots. Dustbins. Safety rules. Small fee. They get space. School gets order. And small income."
"In income terms," Prakash said.
"How much?"
Aryan swallowed.
"Sir… right now the income is zero. And complaints are high. If we formalize—small fee per stall—we get something. Enough to maintain area."
"Fifty rupees?" Prakash theorized.
"Not fixed, sir. Tiering. Bigger earners pay full. Small vendors pay less or help maintain the area."
"You have never run a business."
"I have seen people count coins under leaking roofs," Aryan said quietly. "Not business. But close."
Prakash studied him longer.
Then the questions began.
Not easy questions.
Knife-sharp ones.
"What about liability if someone slips?"
"What if vendors fight?"
"What if municipality interferes?"
"What if parents complain about smoke?"
"What about exam days when the gate must be silent?"
"What if a vendor refuses to move?"
"What if this entire thing collapses?"
Aryan answered.
Sometimes clearly.
Sometimes haltingly.
Sometimes with "I don't know, sir… but I can find out."
Each "I don't know" felt like a bruise forming inside him.
But lying would have been worse.
By the end, the file looked tired.
Aryan looked tired.
Even Prakash's pen looked tired.
Prakash leaned back slightly, fingers still resting on the stamped approval.
His gaze sharpened, as if he had one final test left.
"Before you leave," he said, "I have one question."
Aryan straightened. "Yes, sir?"
"Why you?"
The question froze him more than any technical doubt.
"You are ten," Prakash said calmly.
"You have no authority, no experience, no fear of embarrassment, and no idea what kind of people vendors can be.
So why you?"
Aryan hesitated.
Inside, his thoughts scattered—
snippets of memories, moments, headaches, Aditi's drawings, Sagar's concern, Tanushri's scolding—
all colliding.
Why me?
Why did it have to be him standing here, carrying a file that felt heavier than his own weight?
He searched for a reason that sounded mature, logical, strategic.
None came.
So he told the truth.
"Because nobody else did, sir."
Prakash blinked.
Aryan continued, voice quiet but clear:
"If something is broken and nobody fixes it… then it stays broken.
I don't want… things to stay broken if I can help."
It wasn't dramatic.
It wasn't heroic.
It was simple.
Too simple.
Prakash stared at him for a long moment—
long enough that Aryan wondered if he had said something childish.
Then the man sighed, rubbed his forehead, and muttered:
"…You remind me of someone I used to teach."
He didn't explain who.
Aryan didn't ask.
Prakash slid the stamped form fully across the table.
"Take it," he said. "And remember—this is pitch approval. Not implementation. Not construction. Not authority. Only permission to prepare. Nothing more."
"Yes, sir."
"You will create a final pitch file. Clean, typed, corrected. With your layout, your numbers, your reasoning. You will meet the vendors only to collect information, not to instruct them."
Aryan nodded firmly.
"Understood."
Prakash wasn't done.
"And you will not go alone," he added.
Aryan stiffened.
"Sir—"
"This is not a request. Ten-year-olds do not negotiate with adults. Take someone. A friend. A classmate. A domain partner. Even a teacher if they are free."
Aryan pressed his lips together.
He didn't want more eyes on him.
He didn't want more people knowing.
But the logic held.
"…Okay, sir."
"Good."
Prakash leaned back, satisfied.
"Now go. And if this project becomes a mess, I will personally come to your class and confiscate your file."
Aryan blinked.
He wasn't sure if that was a joke.
"Y–yes, sir."
Prakash waved him off without looking up again.
Aryan stood, bowed slightly, and quietly left the office.
The corridor felt… different this time.
Not lighter.
Not heavier.
Just clearer.
Like every sound, every footstep, every distant shout of students carried meaning.
He breathed in—slow.
Then walked.
Step.
Step.
Step.
His mind was already arranging tasks:
Final pitch file
Vendor interviews
Risk points
New draft maps
Resource estimates
Presentation order
Backup answers
For a moment, he felt older than he should.
Not in a tragic way.
Just… stretched.
As he passed the notice board, a voice stopped him.
"You survived."
He turned.
Riya leaned against the wall, arms folded, expression unreadable.
"I wasn't hiding," she said before he could respond. "I just didn't want your class to see me standing here like some detective."
Aryan didn't comment.
She nodded toward the file in his hand.
"Approval?"
"For pitch," he corrected.
She snorted softly. "Of course. They'll never give full permission to a kid."
Aryan didn't react.
Riya stepped closer.
"What now?" she asked.
"Vendor data," he said. "I need facts. Earnings, timings, conflicts, crowd flow. Whether they even want to move. Whether they'll listen."
"And you're going now?"
Aryan shook his head.
"After school. They're free then."
Riya scanned him carefully.
"You're not doing this alone."
He blinked.
"That's not your problem."
"It is," she said bluntly.
"Because if your pitch collapses, mine will look useless next to yours."
He frowned.
She rolled her eyes.
"Relax. I meant—if the domain messes up one project, the mentor will be on all of us. So I'm helping."
Aryan didn't argue.
He didn't agree, either.
But his silence wasn't a "no."
And Riya understood that.
She uncrossed her arms.
"Meet me after school. I'll finish my research fast. We'll go together."
He gave the smallest nod.
She walked off.
Not dramatic.
Not lingering.
Just… certain.
Aryan watched her go.
He didn't fully trust her motives.
But he didn't distrust them either.
And she wasn't wrong—
this work demanded two pairs of eyes.
As he reached the class door, the bell rang.
Students spilled into the corridor like floodwater.
Sagar spotted him instantly.
"Da! You okay? What did they say? Why so long? Did they shout? Did they—"
Aryan simply held up the file.
Sagar froze.
"Approval," Aryan said.
Sagar's mouth fell open.
"SERIOUSLY?!"
Aryan nodded once.
Sagar bounced on his feet like someone plugged into a power socket.
"DA! THIS IS HUGE! YOU DID IT! WE DID—"
He stopped mid-celebration when Aryan looked away.
There it was—
a tiny, subtle tremor in Aryan's fingers.
Sagar didn't ask.
He simply placed a hand on Aryan's shoulder.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just there.
"Tell me what to do," Sagar said quietly.
Aryan breathed out slowly.
"I'll tell you after school."
"Okay."
And in that tiny, simple exchange—
a team formed.
Not official.
Not declared.
But real.
Aryan stepped into class again.
Aditi looked up immediately from her sketch.
She searched his face.
Saw the approval.
Saw the exhaustion.
Saw the decision already forming in him.
She gave a tiny, warm nod.
"You'll make it work," she murmured, like a promise.
Aryan didn't respond.
But he felt the weight inside him shift—
away from fear,
toward responsibility.
Today, he got permission to begin.
Tomorrow… the real work would start.