The rain was a cold, steady curtain by the time Mani burst from the park. It soaked through his jacket in minutes, plastering his hair to his forehead and running in icy rivulets down his neck. He didn't care. The discomfort was a welcome distraction from the chilling certainty that had settled in his bones: he was being followed.
He ran, his backpack thumping heavily against his spine, his breath coming in ragged gasps that plumed in the damp air. He risked a glance over his shoulder. The street was empty, shimmering under the grey downpour. But the feeling persisted—a prickle at the base of his skull, a silent, watching presence.He cut through Mrs. Kamran's alley, a narrow passage between two brick buildings that was usually littered with overflowing trash cans. Today, the rain had washed the pavement clean, leaving only the smell of wet stone and damp earth. Halfway down, a shadow detached itself from the deeper gloom of a doorway.
Mani's heart leaped into his throat. He skidded to a halt, his shoes slipping on the wet cobblestones.It was a man. He was old, but not frail. He stood perfectly still, wrapped in a long, dark coat that seemed to drink the light. The rain didn't seem to touch him; it fell around him in a strange, dry radius, as if repelled by an invisible shield. His face was lined with a map of a long, hard life, but his eyes… his eyes were the calmest, oldest things Mani had ever seen. They held no threat, only a deep, bottomless patience.
"You feel it, don't you?" the man said. His voice was low and rough, like stones grinding together at the bottom of a river. It was the voice from the park.
Mani could only stare, frozen. He wanted to run, but his feet were rooted to the spot. This was the source of the voice. This was the watcher."The… the voice," Mani stammered, his own voice a thin, reedy thing against the rain. "In my head. Was that you?"The man gave a slow, single nod. "It was.""How?" The question was a whisper. Fear and a wild, impossible curiosity warred inside him.The man took a slow step forward. The rain continued to part around him. "My name is Bali," he said, as if that explained everything. He looked Mani up and down, his gaze lingering on the boy's trembling hands, his rain-soaked jacket, the faint red mark on his cheek from where Mark's shoulder had connected. "They hurt you today."
It wasn't a question. Mani's gaze dropped to the ground. Shame, hot and fresh, washed over him. This stranger had seen his weakness, his humiliation.
"It doesn't matter," Mani mumbled.
"It always matters," Bali said, his voice firm but not unkind. "How they treat you. How you carry it." He gestured with a hand that was gnarled and strong, like the root of an ancient tree. "That boy, the one with the loud voice and the empty eyes… he strikes at others because he is hollow inside. You… you are quiet because you are full. Full of thoughts. Full of feeling. That is not a weakness, Mani. It is a strength he will never understand."
Hearing his name from this stranger's lips sent another jolt through him. "How do you know my name?"
Bali ignored the question. "I have been looking for someone. For a long, long time. Someone with an honest heart. A kind heart. The world is loud with lies and cruelty. But your heart… it is a quiet tune. I heard it."
Mani shook his head, bewildered. None of this made sense. A man who could speak inside his head, who didn't get wet in the rain, who talked about hearing hearts? He must have hit his head when Mark shoved him. This was a concussion dream."I have to go," Mani said, taking a shaky step backward. "My mom… she'll be worried.""She is making stew," Bali said softly. "She is looking out the window, right now, wondering if you are warm enough."Mani froze again, a cold dread seizing him. "How… how could you know that?""I know many things, Mani. I have walked this world for a very long time, watching. Waiting." Bali's intense gaze held him. "The world is entering a dark time. A storm is coming, far worse than this little rain. It will need protectors. It will need kindness armed with strength."
He took another step forward, and now he was close, so close Mani could see the intricate, faint scars on his face and the impossible flecks of silver light deep within his dark eyes."I cannot fight this storm," Bali continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "My time is ending. But my power… it does not have to. I can give it to you."
A hysterical laugh bubbled in Mani's chest. This was insane. "Give me… power? What kind of power?"
"The strength to never be pushed again," Bali said, his voice resonating with a sudden, fierce intensity. "The clarity to see the truth in men's hearts. The ability to shield yourself, and others, from the coming darkness." He looked at Mani, his expression unreadable. "The power to make sure no one like you ever has to feel this afraid or alone again."
The offer hung in the air between them, immense and impossible. It sounded like a fantasy, the exact kind of daydream Mani indulged in when the real world became too much to bear. To be strong. To be safe. To make sure no one else felt his pain.But this was real. The man in front of him was real. The voice in his head had been real.
"Why me?" Mani asked, his voice small.Bali's stern expression softened, just for a moment. "Because when that boy pinned your book to the floor, your first thought was not of anger or revenge. Your first thought was of your mother's worry. That is the heart I have been searching for."
He reached out, his movements slow and deliberate. He didn't touch Mani's shoulder or his head. He pressed his palm flat against Mani's chest, right over his frantically beating heart.
The world disappeared.
There was no alley, no rain, no sound. There was only a blinding, white-hot light that poured from Bali's hand into Mani's chest. It was not a painful feeling, but it was immense, overwhelming, like a river breaking through a dam. He felt it flood his veins, fill his lungs, settle in the very marrow of his bones. Visions flashed behind his eyes—a thousand sunrises over strange mountains, the deep silence of space, the fierce joy of a battle fought for others, the profound sorrow of endless goodbyes.
He felt Bali's life, his memories, his power, flowing into him.
And then, as suddenly as it began, it was over.
Mani stumbled back, gasping. He was back in the alley, soaked and shivering. The world rushed back in—the sound of the rain, the smell of the wet bricks.
Bali stood before him, but he was different. He seemed… thinner. Fainter. The invisible shield was gone, and the rain now fell directly onto him, soaking his grey hair and running down the deep grooves of his face. The brilliant light in his eyes had dimmed to a faint, fading ember.
"It is done," Bali whispered, his voice now thin and raspy, the sound of dry leaves. "The power is yours. It will sleep for a little while, and then it will wake. Use it well, Mani. Use it for good."
He took a slow, shuddering breath, and as he let it out, his form seemed to dissolve, not vanishing, but becoming one with the rain and the shadows, until there was nothing left but the empty alley.
Mani stood alone, trembling from more than just the cold. He pressed a hand to his own chest. It felt the same. His heart was still pounding. Everything looked the same. The wet alley, the grey sky.
Had it really happened? Or had the stress of the day finally broken him?
A sudden, sharp crack of thunder made him jump. Instinctively, he flinched, raising his hands as if to shield himself from the sound.
The trash can lid beside him, a heavy circle of galvanized steel, suddenly tore itself from its bolts and flew across the alley, smashing against the opposite wall with a deafening clang.
Mani stared, his mouth agape, at the dented metal lid now lying in a puddle.
He looked down at his own hands, ordinary, ten-year-old hands.
They looked the same.
But nothing would ever be the same again.