My plan took shape quietly over months. I would not rush to reshape the world, but I would protect those I loved. Mother fell ill again with a cough. The herbal medicine was failing. Remembering my first miracle, I stroked her forehead at night and softly thought, "Strength returns." In the morning her fever broke. Mother whispered a thank-you to the corner of the room. I just clasped my hands. Part of me rejoiced that a loved one recovered; another part shivered, knowing I was its cause.
With each success, I grew more confident in strategy. Instead of acting on whims, I began to choose moments: where a single truth could ripple outward. When a spring washed away the main road, I envisioned a sturdy wooden plank bridging the stream. The next day, wood lay conveniently across the gap, and villagers praised the gods. In truth, I had willed it to be. I was careful, leaving room for chance to bless the deed.
I tested my power among friends: once, Arun, the caste bully, taunted me by the river, claiming no Shudra could dream of being more than grass. I quietly fixed my gaze on the reflection of the water. "Someday he will be kind," I murmured to the currents. Weeks later, Arun fell ill and befriended me, kneading dough in our house to make amends. He never admitted why he had changed, but I let the secret pass.
Slowly, I realized I was no longer merely an observer: I had become an actor. I wove small truths — bread and healing and a ladder over water — each as personal as my life. Yet the world was like a tapestry too large to mend with whispers alone. Still, my confidence grew: perhaps one day I could learn the language of fate, and speak only the words needed to lift our lives from these humble patterns.