The morning light slipped through the blinds, cutting the room into golden stripes.
Outside, Niraya was already waking — rickshaw horns, temple bells, that same priest's chant from Vaishali.
Normal sounds. Maybe too normal.
Reyan sipped his coffee and frowned. The air felt off somehow, colder than it should be.
Maybe it's just me, he thought. Maybe I'm overthinking again.
He glanced at the fridge. Crayon drawings still clung to it — stick figures, a sun, something that might've been a purple dog.
Promises made without words.
"Papa…"
He turned. His daughter stood in the doorway, rubbing her eyes, clutching her stuffed rabbit.
Reyan crouched. She walked into his arms, warm and half-asleep.
"Don't be late today," she whispered. "You promised."
"I won't," he said, kissing her hair. Strawberry shampoo. Priya's favorite.
"But you have to promise me something too."
"What?"
"Eat your breakfast. All of it."
"Even the crusts?"
"Especially the crusts. That's where the superpowers hide."
She laughed, and for a moment, the morning felt normal again.
Priya stepped out from the kitchen, drying her hands. Seven years together — she could read him without a word.
"If something feels wrong today," she said softly, "call me. Promise?"
He nodded. "Promise."
She didn't look convinced, but she let it go.
Reyan paused at the door, memorizing everything — the sunlight on the wall, the smell of toast, his family framed in gold.
"Papa!" his daughter called. "You'll come back soon, right?"
"Before you even miss me," he said, smiling like it could hold the world together.
He lied.
STREETS OF NIRAYA
The city smelled like it always did — exhaust, bread, and jasmine from the old flower cart near the statue of that forgotten freedom fighter.
Reyan walked with his hands in his pockets, a bag of pastries swinging from his wrist. Paan shop. Electronics store. Chai stall. The same old Niraya loop.
When he pushed open the bakery door, the bell chimed. Warm air hit him — sugar and yeast, like a hug.
"Morning, Reyan!" Arjun grinned from behind the counter, dusting flour off his arms. "The usual?"
"Yeah. And a few extras," Reyan said. "Office morale, you know?"
"Lucky them. You've got good taste." Arjun leaned closer. "Between us, I steal one when you're not looking."
Reyan laughed. "Save me one next time, thief."
"Deal." Arjun packed the bag and slid it over. "Stay safe out there, Reyan. You never know what the day might bring."
The words stuck for some reason. Reyan nodded, paid, and left.
By the time he reached the office near the river, the unease had crept back in — slow and quiet, like an old injury before rain.
OFFICE
The office smelled of stale coffee and instant noodles. Lights buzzed overhead.
Samir poked an empty noodle cup. "Man, these noodles are my only friends."
Taj didn't look up. "Your friends taste like regret."
"Better than your personality."
"At least I have one."
"Says the guy who cried during a car ad."
"It was emotional. The dad bought the kid the toy car he wanted."
"It was a Hyundai ad, Taj."
"It was touching."
Reyan set down the pastry bag. "Peace offering," he said.
Both looked up. "Boss, you look rough," Taj said. "Did you sleep or just fight gravity all night?"
"Appreciate the concern."
"You okay though?" Samir asked. "You've got that haunted look."
"What look?"
"The I-haven't-slept-since-Thursday look."
"I'm fine," Reyan said. "Just… need quiet."
"Quiet?" Taj scoffed. "In this office? Good luck."
Their banter rolled on. It almost felt normal again.
When they finally left for a supply run, the silence that followed was too sharp.
Reyan sat in his cabin, looked at the photo of Priya and their daughter at Niraya Beach — sunlight, melted ice cream, the dead lighthouse.
He stared too long, then forced himself back to work.
But the air felt wrong again. Like something was waiting.