"Some hearts don't shine. They glow quietly through the cracks."
The sun hadn't yet broken the rooftops when Ameira stood on the narrow balcony outside her room, cup of warm milk in hand. Below, the street bustled gently—vendors laying out vegetables, an old man hosing down his tea cart, children arguing over cricket before school began.
But she wasn't watching them.
She was watching the wind.
It had felt different lately. Softer. As if it knew her name.
Inside, the house was silent. Not cold, not warm. Just… balanced.
Her parents were already dressed, reading quietly at the breakfast table. They loved her, in the way people loved something they didn't understand but wanted to keep perfect. Smiles were short. Hugs were rare. But expectations? Those filled every corner.
"Eat something," her mother called. "You didn't finish last night either."
"I will," she replied.
She wouldn't.
At school, she took her usual seat near the back window. She liked watching shadows move across the floor. The world outside always looked calmer from a step away.
Vikran entered the classroom and offered a polite nod. She returned it—not with her head, but with her eyes.
They hadn't spoken since the tree.
But something lingered.
Rudren arrived five minutes late, dragging a chair noisily across the floor, plopping down beside Ameira with a groan. He smelled faintly of soap and storm.
"You hear about the fight near the bus stand?" he asked.
She didn't answer.
"I'm not saying it was me," he smirked, "but if you hear rumors, I want credit."
Ameira smiled. A little.
Rudren leaned back, tapping his pen against his leg. "New guy's weird."
"Quiet," she corrected softly.
"Same thing."
"No. It's not."
He paused. Looked at her sideways.
Then looked at Vikran, sitting in the front row, drawing faint patterns on his desk with a pencil.
Later that day, they were grouped together for a cultural festival project.
Vikran, Ameira, Rudren.
Three corners of a triangle that didn't yet know it was connected.
They were told to plan a nature-themed mural for the school entrance.
Rudren groaned. "Why us?"
"Because we won the 'least likely to volunteer' lottery," Ameira deadpanned.
Vikran just nodded.
"We'll need to meet after school," she said.
"I have time," Vikran replied.
"Fine," Rudren muttered. "But if this turns into finger painting, I'm out."
That evening, in the fading sunlight, the three of them sat on the cracked school stairs with sketchpads and colored pencils.
They didn't draw.
They talked.
Not loudly. Not all at once.
Just… slowly.
Ameira sketched birds she remembered from her dreams. White ones, glowing faintly.
Vikran described a hill in his village where the wind always whistled the same tune.
Rudren surprised them by saying he used to paint, once. Years ago.
"Why'd you stop?" Ameira asked.
He shrugged. "The world's too noisy. Can't hear colors anymore."
Vikran looked up at the sky. "Maybe they're still there. Just hidden."
And for once, Rudren didn't argue.
That night, Ameira sat on her bed, flipping through her sketchpad. On one page, she'd drawn a lion without realizing. Mane flowing like mist. Eyes closed. Asleep.
She didn't remember drawing it.
She didn't even like lions.
Outside, the wind whispered past her window.
She placed the sketchpad aside and closed her eyes.
In her dream, she stood in a white forest, stars woven between branches. A great beast of light lay beside a river, watching her.
When she reached out, the wind shifted.
A voice—not loud, but ancient—spoke:
"You walk softly. That is why you are heard."
She woke with a start, sweat on her brow.
The sketchbook lay open again.
And the lion she didn't draw… now had eyes.
Open.
Watching.
To be continued ....