Warm sunlight filters through green leaves. Birdsong echoes softly. Somewhere far, water trickles in a slow, soothing rhythm.
A four-year-old Aarav sits on someone's lap—safe, tiny, legs swinging. A large hand rests gently on his chest, the low hum of a voice weaving a story:
"...And the little boy, thin like a stick—but brave like a lion—he pulled his heavy big brother up from the well. How, you ask?"
"With a rope?" little Aarav guesses, eyes wide with wonder.
A deep chuckle.
But the face of the man holding him is… blurred—as if the memory itself refuses to reveal the truth. Just warmth. Familiar. Loving. But faceless.
Suddenly—
Aarav jolts awake.
Gasping. Covered in sweat. Chest heaving.
"Naira!!" he shouts, panic surging before he realizes—
He's home. In bed. Safe.
Naira bursts into the room, frying spatula still in hand, apron slightly singed.
"What happened?! Aarav!"
He sits up, staring into space. "I… don't know."
"A nightmare?"
"Maybe. I don't remember. Just… warmth. And a story."
She sits beside him, brushing damp hair from his forehead.
"You're burning up. Go wash your face, okay? Breakfast's almost ready."
Aarav, still groggy, stares at the food on his plate.
He picks up his smartphone, unlocks it, and taps the news app.
HEADLINE: "Terror at Records Department – 3 Officers Dead"
Subtext: "Suspect seen fleeing after fire and explosion—armed and dangerous."
A blurry CCTV image shows a figure surrounded by smoke.
It's him.
Aarav's fingers tremble.
His stomach churns—not from guilt, but from the fury of twisted truths.
"They were going to kill me… they were burning truth…"
Just then, Naira snatches the phone from his hand.
"Phones aren't allowed at breakfast," she says, trying to keep her tone light.
Aarav looks up, lost in thought.
"Naira…"
She cuts in gently, this time her voice lower.
"Eat, Aarav. Let food have your attention today. You're not what that article says. And…"
She places a warm plate before him.
"I made Your favourite."
A faint smile touches Aarav's lips—but his eyes remain stormy.