The smell of smoke still lingered, but the flames had gone.
Morning light poured through the broken branches and cracked rooftops, casting golden halos over the scorched earth. The fire had swallowed homes, tools, memories — but it had spared lives.
That alone felt like a miracle.
Anaya stirred beneath the half-burnt awning of the village temple. She had collapsed there sometime after dawn, soot still clinging to her fingers, her shawl wrapped around a sleeping child. Her back ached. Her feet were blistered. Her muscles groaned with every breath.
But she was alive. And so were the people.
Across the square, she saw Yuvan — sitting beside what remained of the old granary wall. His once-smooth hands were torn, wrapped in linen. A single bowl of rice sat untouched beside him. He wasn't looking at it. He was watching the villagers repair a collapsed shelter, as if trying to memorize the way effort looked when it wasn't paid in coins.
He hadn't spoken to her since the fire.
Not out of avoidance, but... uncertainty. Like he didn't know what to say now that the mask had burned away.
Anaya stood, adjusting her scarf, and walked toward him.
Yuvan looked up. He didn't smile. Neither did she.
"You haven't eaten," she said, pointing to the bowl.
He glanced at it. "It feels wrong. Eating before others. After everything."
Anaya nodded. For once, there was no lecture in her tone.
"Then share it."
She picked up the bowl, divided the rice into two flat leaves, and handed him one without ceremony. No thank-you. No charity. Just… survival.
They sat, back against the blackened wall, chewing in silence.
"I used to think hunger was something poor people failed to solve," Yuvan said after a while.
Anaya didn't respond.
"But it's not failure," he continued. "It's punishment. For being born on the wrong side."
She looked at him then, truly looked.
"You're not wrong," she said. "But you still don't know what real hunger is."
"And you'll teach me?"
"No," she replied. "Life will."
He didn't argue.
That night, Yuvan dreamed of a river he had never seen.
A wide, silver ribbon beneath moonlight. A woman stood on its edge, her back to him. She wore a white sari, and her long hair moved like waves in the breeze.
"I know you," he whispered.
She didn't turn. But he felt her voice anyway.
"Then remember me."
Lightning flashed across the dream, revealing a stone temple behind her — carved with seven vows in ancient script. The wind lifted red thread between them… and then it snapped.
Yuvan woke, gasping.
In the heavens, Narada Muni smiled at Vishnu and said,
"He dreams now. The soul scratches at its own truth."
Vishnu, reclining in serenity, nodded.
"Let the memories drip like rain. Not flood. Slow revelation guides destiny better than force."
Saraswati, watching beside a scroll of fate, added gently,
"Let them earn their love. It is only in earning that humans learn."
Later that day, Yuvan did something unexpected.
He walked to the village center with a small cart. Not grand. Not full. But inside were three sacks of rice and one pot of dal.
"Free," he announced. "No names. No lines. Just take what you need."
People stared.
They didn't thank him.
They didn't praise him.
But they accepted.
And Yuvan — for the first time in his life — felt full.
Not in belly, but in soul.
Anaya watched from a distance.
She didn't trust it.
Not yet.
But she couldn't deny… something had shifted.
When the heart empties of ego, there is space for purpose to grow.
And in the ashes of old pride… the first roots of the vow began to sprout.