Morning sunlight pressed against my eyelids like a hand trying to wake me by force. I opened one eye enough to see the chaos of half-opened boxes piled across my room. Clothes in one, books in another, and an entire box labeled Don't Open — Seriously that Dad had scribbled on out of pure stubbornness.
Before I could pretend to fall back asleep, her voice arrived.
"Tejas."
Aunt Vahni's tone could slice through concrete.
I sat up. "I'm awake."
She stood at the doorway, arms folded, leather pouch with my mother's ash tied at her waist as always. She didn't move. She just pointed to the floor in front of her.
"Stand."
I dragged myself up.
"Mantra," she said.
"Aunty, at least let me—"
"Now."
I closed my eyes and repeated the words the clan had carried for generations, the words she made me say every morning before I stepped into the world.
"अग्निः प्रतिज्ञा, अग्निः मूल्यं।
नियमय — नियंत्रय — सहस्व।
Fire is a promise, and a price.
Contain. Control. Endure."
When I opened my eyes, she nodded like she'd clipped a medal onto my uniform.
"I'm going to school, not Kargil," I muttered.
"For you," she said, adjusting her dupatta, "everything is a battlefield."
I didn't argue. It never helped.
Dad was in the living room, sipping tea with his left hand. He tried to look casual, but every breath seemed to weigh differently on him. His right arm rested still, supported by a cloth sling.
"Morning, champ," he said gently.
"Morning."
"Your lunch is packed," he added.
Packed by Vahni, of course. I opened the lid to check. Palak & Roti. A neat portion, tightly pressed, with a tiny pickle box beside it. Simple. Predictable. Safe.
"Aunty's style," Dad said with a small smile. "Nothing explodes in a tiffin."
I hoped he didn't catch the irony.
I took my bag and stepped outside.
The town was still new to me—freshly painted buildings, uneven footpaths, stray cats that looked suspiciously well-fed, and the smell of bakeries that opened too early for normal humans. The school was a short walk away, past a row of apartment blocks and a field where crows were constantly arguing about something.
At the school gate, Anaya appeared beside me like someone who had rehearsed the timing.
She adjusted her glasses and looked at me with dramatic suspicion. "You look more lost today."
"I'm fine."
"Lies," she said immediately. "Your face is 92% lies. Minimum."
I kept walking. She followed like an attached accessory.
"I noticed something," she said.
"What?"
"You don't smile."
"I do."
"When?"
"Sometimes."
"Lies," she declared again. "But that's okay. I have patience."
That was the problem. She did.
We reached the classroom just as the bell rang. Mrs. Mary D'Souza entered with the kind of grace that came from years of teaching and decades of pretending students weren't annoying her. Her crucifix necklace glimmered faintly when she turned.
"Good morning, class."
"Good morning, ma'am."
Attendance began.
Kabir answered with a confident "Present, ma'am," as if he were reciting royalty protocol. Mrs. Mary gave him a warm nod that she gave no one else.
Then she reached the next name.
"Nithin."
A small voice from the last row said, "Present…"
No one looked at him. No one had to. The boy held himself like he expected the world to press him down any moment.
Mrs. Mary didn't pause at his name the way she did with Kabir's. She simply checked the box and moved on.
Classes rolled on. Social first, then Math's. The usual.
Nothing strange. No warmth in my wrist. No railing glowing. No pen vibrating.
Just normal school.
Normal was good.
At lunch break, I went to the neem tree again. It was becoming a habit—finding the quietest place and pretending I wasn't hoping Anaya wouldn't find me.
She found me in 2 minutes.
She plopped down beside me dramatically, opened her tiffin, and said, "Behold!"
Her tiffin wasn't much—lemon rice, but hers looked brighter, zestier, and somehow happier. Mine looked like resignation.
She peered into my box.
She gasped.
"Oh no."
"What?"
"Is this food," she said, pointing at my dry roti, "or punishment?"
"It's food."
"It's a warning," she corrected. "Against joy."
"Please shut up."
She grinned. "Swap?"
"No."
"Tejas. I'm offering premium rice."
"No."
"You're impossible," she sighed.
"You're annoying," I replied.
"That's why we match."
I scooped a bite of lemon rice into my mouth just to avoid answering. She watched me like I was a science experiment that might grow legs and run.
"You know," she said between bites, "you can tell me if something's bothering you."
"Nothing's bothering me."
"Lies," she said again. "Bold lies."
I didn't reply.
She leaned closer, squinting. "Are you warm again?"
"No."
She touched the bench near my elbow, feeling the surface like she was checking for fever.
"Hm."
That sound—hm—it carried enough suspicion to fill a report.
"Stop observing me," I said.
"You make it impossible not to."
Her smile didn't match her eyes. The smile was playful. The eyes were curious. Too curious.
We returned to class. I sat behind Kabir and beside Nithin. Kabir didn't acknowledge either of us. Nithin looked like he was trying to be invisible but didn't have the skill yet.
Mrs. Divya taught English with a tone that made poems sound like punishment. Kabir got praised twice for answers I wasn't sure were fully correct. When Nithin answered a question softly, she barely looked up.
That invisible rule again.
After school, I walked home. Anaya tagged along as usual.
"You're quieter today," she said. "A record. Should I be concerned?"
"No."
"You're sure?"
"Yes."
Her eyes stayed on me longer than they should have. I ignored it.
We reached the building, and as I climbed the stairs, my fingers brushed the railing. A tiny warmth flickered beneath my palm and vanished immediately.
Not enough to see. Not enough to panic. Just enough to remind me something was there.
Anaya didn't see. Good.
She stopped one step below me and said, "Tejas?"
"Hmm?"
"If anything weird happens… you can tell me."
I looked at her. Her glasses reflected the light, hiding her expression for a moment.
"Why do you care?" I asked.
She shrugged. "I don't know. You're just… interesting."
Great. Exactly what I didn't want to be.
At a faraway place, Devraj walked out of a grocery store carrying a list of names that didn't matter.
He had spoken to ten people that day. Eight had nothing to say. Two offered faint memories of a fire years ago but no details.
That was too normal. Too clean.
He stood at the corner of the old block and typed a message to Mahesh.
"Send more raw logs."
A moment later
"Tonight."
He checked the first few lines. Nothing unusual. Heat from a bakery. A tempo van's engine. Streetlight transformer.
He exhaled slowly.
He did not know he was chasing a shadow long gone.
He only knew one thing—
He wouldn't stop.
Back home, Dad was resting, and Vahni was rearranging the kitchen with silent intensity. I placed my bag down and felt something inside my chest shift, like the smallest pulse of heat waiting for a decision.
I ignored it and changed clothes.
The day had been normal enough.
But somewhere beneath the surface—beneath my skin, something was moving.
Something slow. Something patient. Something that would not stay quiet forever.
Something I didn't understand.
But it understood me.
And sooner or later, someone else would notice it too.