Location: Sector 9, Outer Kolkata SlumsDate: September 22, 2029Time: 6:13 AM
The monsters didn't come back that night.
They felt him now.
Not as prey.But as something older. Something heavier.
Ash still clung to Yash's arms like a second skin. His divine mark — freshly carved in glowing lines — pulsed slower now, like a sleeping flame.
He wasn't a god.
He wasn't a hero.
But something inside him had changed — something that wouldn't let him watch people die anymore.
Khushi's tiny fingers gripped his shirt as she slept against his chest.
She hadn't spoken since her mother died.But she hadn't cried either.
Yash understood that kind of silence too well.
They were both broken in different ways.And in this ruined world, maybe broken people were the only ones who still knew how to care.
The slums were wrecked — smashed walls, half-dead homes, old buses turned to graves. But there was one old community hall, mostly intact. A concrete block with metal shutters and thick walls. Burned from the outside, but solid inside.
Yash carried Khushi to it.
Along the way, he passed others.
Survivors.
A boy limping with blood-soaked jeans.An old woman dragging a sack of rice.A nurse with trembling hands, clutching bandages and nothing else.
None of them asked questions.
They just… followed him.
He didn't speak.But the ash on his arms glowed faintly in the sun.
He pushed open the doors to the hall.
Inside: Dust. Rat droppings. Stains. Darkness.
But also… shelter.
Yash put Khushi down gently and turned to the others.
There were seven of them now.
All looking at him like maybe — just maybe — someone still knew what to do.
He didn't say a speech.
He just started working.
Cleared the broken chairs.Tore off moldy curtains for bedsheets.Blocked the shattered windows with metal sheets.
When someone coughed, he passed a cloth.When someone cried, he said nothing — but sat near.
And when someone asked,
"What do we do now?"
Yash finally answered.
"We survive."
That was the first day of Ashtashram.
A shelter not built from bricks…but from grief, ash, and will.
Later that night, Khushi handed him a crayon drawing.
It was messy. Crooked. But he recognized it.
A stick figure standing in smoke.Around him: people.Above him: stars.
She had written one word below it, in broken handwriting.
"Home."
Yash folded the drawing and placed it near his heart.