The storm had passed, but the Sundarbans did not forgive.
A thick, wet fog clung to the mangroves, and the air smelled of mud, salt, and something bitter—loss. Broken huts leaned at impossible angles, their walls splintered, roofs missing. Boats floated aimlessly, some upside down, their cargo long gone.
Amod clung to a half-broken fishing boat, shivering, water dripping from his tangled hair into wide, terrified eyes. He had no mother's arms to hold him, no father's hand to guide him. His small chest heaved as he tried to remember how to breathe without choking on the muddy water.
Voices rang through the mist, harsh, anxious, worried. A group of villagers stumbled through the flooded pathways, dragging ropes and empty baskets. Their faces were streaked with mud and tears; their children were missing.
A sharp voice called out:
"Another one! Over here!"
Hands grabbed Amod's boat, steadying it. A man, tall and strong, lifted him gently, ignoring the protestations of his screaming siblings, who clutched at his legs. Amod tried to speak but only a tiny squeak escaped.
The villagers murmured amongst themselves, shaken by grief. Many of their families were gone. Many of their homes were gone. And in the back of their minds, a dreadful thought lingered: how many had not survived?
An old woman pressed her hand to her lips, her eyes scanning the water.
"Child… so small…" she whispered. "May the river gods spare him."
Amod felt their eyes on him, warm and heavy, their grief a weight he could not understand. His body trembled, soaked through to the bone. He wanted to cry, but no tears would come. The world felt empty.
The man carrying him handed him to a group of women, who wrapped him in dry, rough cloth. He tried to speak again, to call for his parents, but the names stuck in his throat. He had lost them. The thought was sharp, cold, and unbearable.
For hours, the villagers searched. They called out names, shouted over the wind and the water. Some found their children; some found nothing.
Amod was taken to a small, surviving hut on slightly higher ground. The floor was muddy, but it was dry enough for him to sit. He curled up, shivering, and let the heavy fog of exhaustion take him.
All around, the forest was quiet but for the dripping of rain and the low, mournful groan of the wind through the mangrove roots. Life continued, stubbornly, in the aftermath.
And somewhere in the depths of the mangrove forest, unseen and silent, a pair of amber eyes watched the tiny, trembling child. Not interfering, not moving closer—just watching. Waiting. Protecting.
But to Amod, that presence was nothing more than a feeling of warmth, almost like a memory he couldn't place. He would not understand it yet.
For now, he was alone.
And alone, he survived.
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