The first week of July came with half-drenched notebooks and the smell of wet soil in every fold of Devgarh.
The rain hadn't stopped since Monday, and the roads between Nandanpur and the city were slushy enough to make even scooters second-guess their path.
Still, at 5:15 a.m., the eight students were out again — four vehicles, eight sleepy souls, and a dream of winning that scholarship exam in December.
As always, Ishanvi and Abhay led the line — the morning wind tugging at her dupatta and his sleeves flapping like soaked wings. Raghav, Vivaan, Aariv, and the others followed in imperfect formation, often swerving at last second to avoid muddy potholes or wandering cows.
A Quick Fall, and a Slower Kindness
School ground. First-period break.
Meera was laughing at Aariv's very bad mimicry of the math teacher when she tripped — her foot slipping on moss near the edge of the flagpole.
There was a thud. Her elbow scraped. Her water bottle rolled out, bouncing twice before landing under a bench.
Everyone paused.
But before anyone could even move, Simran — the same girl who'd mocked them just weeks ago — rushed over, actually kneeling beside her.
"Don't move," Simran said, checking the elbow with careful fingers. "Idiot, why didn't you look where you were going?"
Meera stared, confused. "You're… helping me?"
"Don't tell anyone," Simran muttered, half-smiling. "I have a reputation."
Ishanvi crouched beside them. "Let's get her to the infirmary."
Abhay helped Meera up gently, the scraped skin already cleaned by the falling rain — but also something else. A small stream of water curved under her elbow for a moment… like a tender touch of a healing river.
Only Ishanvi noticed. She said nothing.
Crash of Eight
That day while returning — the rain had slowed but left the road glass-slick — they were just 2 km from school when it happened.
The scooter line broke when a cyclist darted across the road.
Vivaan braked too hard.
Raghav skidded sideways.
Vaidehi shrieked as her scooter tipped.
Abhay turned instinctively — his palm flying out as water splashed up from the roadside drain, cushioning Ishanvi and Aariv as they hit the wet gravel.
No one was seriously hurt. Just muddy. Shaken. Scratched. Embarrassed.
And yet, for a moment, the world felt still. Not angry. Not cruel. Just watching.
Because when Ishanvi stood — a faint orange spark in her eyes — the wind stopped. The trees paused. Her palms glowed like they were trying to hide something alive.
And Abhay looked at her, breathing hard. Not afraid. Just… knowing.
She nodded once, like she was saying, "Yes, I felt that too."
Back Home, But Closer
By evening, they were all gathered under the banyan tree near Raghav's house — wet towels on their heads, plaster on Meera's elbow, and tea cups passed around like medals.
Simran wasn't there. But Meera smiled quietly, "She's not bad. Just... scared of being good, maybe."
Ishanvi, curled near a steel flask, said softly, "People fall. Sometimes that's what brings them together."
Abhay replied, "It's also how they rise that matters."
She looked at him. The fire in her calmed, flickered once. He looked away, the water in him stilled, quiet as a lake.
Vaidehi whispered, "Why do I feel like everything's changing and we haven't even started yet?"
Raghav replied, "Because it is."
The Last Lines of the Day
That night, as they all reached their homes, the storm had finally gone.
But in Ishanvi's window, the flame of her lamp danced like it was excited.
And in Abhay's backyard, the tub left out for rainwater didn't overflow.
It had frozen. Just for a second. Just the surface. Like someone said enough.