Seven years had passed quietly in Nougrihi, like water slipping over smooth stones. Kunal was now seven years old, taller and thinner than most boys his age, with those same clear, piercing eyes that seemed to notice things others missed. He did not run and play by the river as often as the other children. Instead, he preferred to sit at the edge and watch—watching how they laughed, how they argued, how fear hid behind every joke. His mind worked constantly, collecting small details like a bird gathering twigs for a nest.
The village had not changed much in those years. Rain still arrived late, or not at all. Crops grew thin and yellow under the harsh sun. People spoke in lower voices now, as if afraid the wrong word might bring worse luck. The elders gathered more often under the great banyan tree, their faces heavy with worry. They talked about the earth being angry. They talked about what the earth demanded. Everyone understood what they meant, even if no one said the word aloud.
One morning, while fetching water from the well behind his father's hut, Kunal stopped suddenly. There, half-hidden in the dirt, sat the same small clay pot from the night he was born. It had been placed there carefully, not dropped or blown by wind. Inside lay a single black feather, fresh and glossy, as though it had been left only minutes earlier.
Kunal lifted the pot and turned the feather slowly in his fingers. It felt too perfect—too clean, too deliberate. No bird had left it here by chance. He looked around the empty path. The trees stood silent, their leaves barely moving. Yet he felt eyes on him, a cold prickle along his back. Someone had been here. Someone had wanted him to find it.
He slipped the feather into his pocket and pushed the pot under a loose stone where no one would look. He did not tell his father. Siryu's shoulders had grown more bent over the years. The poor harvests had carved deeper lines into his face. Kunal did not want to add another worry to the ones his father already carried.
That afternoon the village gathered under the banyan tree. The elders sat in the center on woven mats. Amma stood nearby, arms folded across her chest, her face as hard as the old stone walls of Mahishnati. The head elder's voice carried across the quiet crowd.
"The signs are bad again," he said. "Rain hides from us. The earth grows hungry. We must give what it asks."
A low murmur ran through the people. A woman from the lower huts spoke up, her voice shaking but steady. "We gave last year. My brother went into the grove. He never came back. And still the rain did not come."
The elder's eyes turned sharp. "The earth does not bargain. It takes what it needs. We do not question."
Kunal stood at the back of the crowd, half-hidden behind the thick trunk of the tree. He listened to every word. He remembered last year's offering. He remembered the year before that. He remembered every drought, every empty promise that "next year will be better." The numbers did not add up in his head. The offerings never truly changed anything.
After the meeting ended, Kunal slipped away along a narrow path toward the small grove behind the village. Few people came here alone. The air felt thick, the ground soft and dark underfoot. He saw fresh footprints in the soil—three sets. One pair of large sandals. Two smaller. The prints led toward the deeper trees, then stopped abruptly, as if someone had lifted something heavy and carried it away.
Kunal knelt and touched the earth. It was damp, but not from rain. A darker stain marked the spot. Nearby lay a torn piece of rough cloth, stained dark at the edges. He picked it up carefully and tucked it into his pocket beside the feather.
When he returned home, Siya was waiting outside the hut. She was only six, small but steady, with eyes that saw too much for her age. She looked at his face and knew immediately.
"You found something again," she said quietly.
Kunal pulled out the feather and the cloth. Siya touched them with careful fingers. Her hand trembled just a little. "Someone keeps leaving these," she whispered. "Not for your father. Not for the elders. For you."
Kunal nodded. The same cold certainty had settled in his chest.
That night the village slept under a thin, pale moon. Kunal lay awake on his mat, staring at the thatched roof. Soft footsteps came from outside—slow, careful steps. They stopped near the door. A faint scrape sounded against the wood. Then silence.
Kunal sat up slowly. His heart beat hard against his ribs. He waited, listening. Nothing more came.
In the morning he went behind the hut again. Another black feather rested exactly where the first one had been seven years ago.
Kunal closed his fist around it. He did not throw it away. He kept it with the others.
Someone was watching him.
Someone wanted him to notice.
And in the quiet corners of his mind, questions were growing—questions no child should ask, questions that could bring danger if spoken aloud.
Somewhere in the shadows of Nougrihi, someone smiled.
Because the boy had begun to look.
And once he looked, he would never stop.