Some truths are buried so deep that even the people who buried them forget where they put them.
A child was born on a stormy night in Mumbai. Three children were born. And before they could speak, before they could ask why, before they could understand what was being taken from them, they were separated and scattered across two continents like seeds thrown into wind.
One of them would spend his entire life searching for the truth.
One of them would spend her entire life waiting without knowing what she was waiting for.
And one of them — the world does not yet know about the third one.
This is the story of the first.
His name is Dawn.
But that is not what they called him at the beginning.