A shower of colored paper rained down as the last note faded. People moved slowly through the aisles, voices bright with laughter on their way out.

  "Dhanya, wait here with Shwetha," Papa said, his voice stern as he adjusted his watch. "I will bring the car to the main porch. Do not move. Nights are not for wandering."

  Okay, Father," I replied, sounding just like a chime at prayer - pure, soft, following without question.

  Right after he rounded the bend, my eyes moved to Shwetha.

  Five minutes,” she said softly, her eyes sharp with purpose. Off you go

  Footsteps snapped against the sidewalk - each tap a line in that story they’d later write - while I moved fast, past labs and lecture halls, heading where roots rose thick beneath an old banyan’s shade.

  Darkness pooled beneath the trees. There stood someone, propped up by the bark.

  "Chandru?" I whispered.

  "I didn't think you'd come," he said, stepping into the moonlight. He looked tired but relieved. "Your father’s car is already at the gate, isn't it?"

  "I have three minutes," I said, my chest heaving. "Why did you call me here?"

  He reached into his bag and pulled out a small, wooden flute. It was old, polished by years of use. "My grandfather gave me this when I started art. He said that to draw the wind, you have to know how it sounds. I’m graduating this year, Dhanya. I won't be here next term."

  Harder than failing a test - that's how it felt when I heard. Out the door he’d go.

  "I want you to have this," he said, placing the flute in my hands. "Don't let the 'Strict Papa' or the jealous friends turn you into a statue. You are a singer. Keep the music alive, even when the school gets quiet."

  A silence hung there, just a breath before words could form. Then came that sound - sharp, known - the call of someone shouting across asphalt. It sliced through the moment I might have spoken. The one where I’d finally say how long I watched his drawing that season. How something inside me beat harder whenever he stepped close.

  "DHANYA! SHWETHA!"

  There stood Papa. Just there, near the trail under the banyan branches, his voice clear as if close at hand.

  Move,” he said, fading behind the dark. “Hurry now.”

  Barely a glance behind me. The flute slipped into my dupatta while the porch drew near, feet moving fast - Papa’s car rolling in at the same moment. There stood Shwetha, still as morning light.

  Out of breath, I slipped into the backseat just as Papa narrowed his eyes. "Where had you been," he said.

  "I... I dropped my hair clip, Papa. I was just looking for it in the grass," I lied. It was the best lie I had ever told.

  Back through the window, my eyes caught sight of Ajay near the pillar, motionless, gaze fixed on the car. The school's glow shrank in the distance, dimming like a memory. Pressed against me, the flute rested - solid, heavy, real.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  That year I turned twelve. Not far away, someone watched without making a sound. Laughter came from an unlikely corner, another kid who never stayed still. A quiet teacher showed up with lessons that made no sense at first. Then one day, less light entered through the window. School endings crept into conversations like damp air. Marks on paper meant something different now. Prayers felt heavier. Things once clear began twisting into hidden patterns. Rain changed how everything moved. Secrets stacked up without warning. This part begins when the sky stays gray for days

  A quiet settled where laughter used to rush through the halls after last bell. Though crowds still moved between classrooms, the space seemed thinner somehow, stretched too wide without him in it. Off he went - that boy who carved notes into flute wood - chasing light across stages far from here. Inside my saree case now rests what remains: an instrument made of silence, its surface worn smooth by fingers refusing to let go. On paper, his face fades slowly, blurred by palms tracing every line again and again.

  Funny how life just keeps moving. Punjab got hit hard when the rains came. Not like Kerala’s gentle beat - this storm shouted as it fell. The schoolyard, once dry and cracked, sank under thick muck where old whispers seemed buried.

  "Dhanya, you’re daydreaming again," Priya said, nudging me as we sat in the canteen. "You’ve been staring at that samosa for ten minutes. If you don’t eat it, Bharat will."

  Bharat appeared just then, dropping onto the seat opposite like he’d been called. Rain soaked his clothes, strands of wet hair stuck to his face, yet that playful spark still lit up his gaze.

  "I don't want her samosa," Bharat said, though his hand was already hovering near my plate. "I want her to explain why she's been avoiding the Science Lab. Adithya is acting like a dictator because you're not there to balance him out."

  "I'm not avoiding it, Bharat," I said, finally taking a bite. "I'm just... busy. Music exams are coming up."

  "Music, music, music," Bharat grumbled. "You know, there's more to life than hitting a high note, Dhanya. Like, for example, making sure our volcano doesn't explode and take out Mrs. Kapur’s eyebrows."

  That laugh came sudden. It was the first true one since the Cultural Night. Bharat always knew how to drag me back from my thoughts. Chandru carried the spirit, Ajay moved like a quiet echo - Bharat stood solid, like ground underfoot. Noise followed him everywhere. Annoying? Sure. But also steady. A place to land.