Today was Result Day.
---
Banni had bathed early and braided her hair with care. She wore a simple cotton salwar, ironed the night before — cream with blue flowers.
Her father was sitting with the newspaper but hadn't turned a single page.
Amma kept checking the idli steamer even after it was off.
Manu, her younger brother — now in 7th standard — sat cross-legged near the window, watching Vani tie her shoelaces.
> "Are you scared, akka?" he whispered.
Banni smiled. "Not really."
Because Magical Space had gently whispered at dawn:
> "Estimated Score Projection: 92%
Subject Accuracy: High
Mental Readiness: Stable
Emotional Preparedness: Strong"
It wasn't overconfidence.
It was clarity.
---
Vani volunteered to go to the cyber centre, as only one person could access the portal and collect the printed copy without crowding. It was safer that way.
> "I'll go," she said, adjusting her bag. "I know her roll number."
Banni gave her the code again, just in case.
---
As Vani left, the house held its breath.
Every five minutes, someone glanced at the clock.
Mr. Ramesh peeked out of his store twice.
Even the temple bell sounded louder that morning.
---
Half an hour later, Vani returned.
Her sandals hit the steps faster than usual.
She had two sheets in hand.
Everyone stood up before she said anything.
She walked straight to Banni, handed over the printout without a word.
Banni took it.
One glance.
And then—
> 92.4%
---
Gasps. Then silence.
Her father slowly rose, stared at the marksheet, and placed a hand gently on her shoulder.
> "You've made us proud," he said. Voice low. Steady. But his eyes shone.
Amma wiped her cheek and walked straight to the puja corner.
Mr. Ramesh smiled openly — the kind of smile he hadn't worn in years.
Vani pulled her into a brief hug. "You did it."
Even Manu clapped. "Laptop time!" he shouted.
---
Later that afternoon, Banni and her father walked to school for the formal stamp and approval copy.
Teachers congratulated her. Some were surprised. Others nodded knowingly.
> "Hard work pays," one of them said.
But Banni knew it wasn't just hard work.
It was guidance.
From family.
From Magical Space.
From somewhere inside herself.
---
That night, after dinner, her father said only one line before going to bed:
> "We'll get your laptop this Sunday. Promise is a promise."
And Banni, lying under the fan, eyes open in the dark, whispered into her magical space:
> "Thank you."
Sunday morning came with the rustle of fresh newspapers and the clatter of cups in the kitchen.
But today was not like other Sundays.
Because today, they were going to buy the laptop.
---
Her father had kept his promise — exactly one week after the results. He woke early, shaved neatly, and wore his light blue shirt. He looked more like a man on his way to a meeting than a market.
Banni wore a soft green kurti. Calm on the outside, quietly thrilled inside.
> It wasn't just a device. It was a beginning.
---
🛍️ In the Electronics Store
Harsha came along too. No one had formally said it out loud, but it was understood — they would share the laptop.
Not for gaming. Not for wasting time.
For learning.
For earning.
For trying.
> "Make sure it has good battery," Harsha said, bending to look at the specs.
"Keyboard should be soft," Banni added. "I'll type a lot."
They looked at four different models before settling on one — sleek, light-weight, 8GB RAM, pre-installed with Microsoft Office.
> "Excel, Word, PowerPoint — everything's there," the shopkeeper explained. "Best for students."
Her father nodded. "We'll take it."
---
At the counter, Banni clutched the bill.
It felt unreal — not because it was expensive, but because it was hers. Bought with trust, with love. With belief.
---
🏡 Back at Home
Once home, they opened the box carefully on the plastic table.
Harsha helped with initial setup — creating user accounts, adjusting brightness, installing Chrome and VLC. Banni quietly explored the Office tools.
He shrugged. "I'm thinking... maybe try something online too. Part-time. Data entry, maybe. I don't want to sit idle."
---
The laptop wasn't locked away in a cupboard.
It stayed on the table, plugged in after use, cleaned regularly, treated like a partner — not a prize.
Their mothers noticed.
Their fathers noticed.
But no one said much. Only soft nods and small smiles.
Late one evening, with the house gone quiet and the laptop screen dimmed, Banni sat cross-legged on her floor mat, eyes closed.
She had a question.
And Magical Space… had an answer.
> "You wish to explore?"
"Then let me show you."
The familiar pulse of warm light returned in her mind.
But this time, it wasn't just a glow.
It became a door.
---
🌌 The Space Within
In a heartbeat — or maybe less — Banni stood inside a space she'd never seen before.
It was endless, soft-lit, and silent.
To her right: rows and rows of hovering bookshelves, stretching infinitely.
And then a gentle voice — calm, precise, machine-like yet comforting:
> "Host has unlocked: Cognitive Absorption Mode."
"Touch any real-world book with intent, and its contents will be absorbed. Or browse within this Space Library — all reference material will imprint directly to memory with your permission."
"Data is stored as knowledge — not clutter. Accessible on demand. No side effects."
Banni's eyes widened.
> "So I don't need to read for hours?"
"Correct. You still learn, but you skip the repetition and confusion."
"Can I use this for assignments?"
"Yes. For personal growth, study, and accepted work.
But Banni's eyes were closed, and her breathing calm.
> She had entered the magical space again.
---
Inside, the air shimmered with a soft golden glow. This time, something was different.
A new path had opened.
There, etched in floating symbols above an arched doorway, it read:
> "Knowledge Vault — Host Access Unlocked."
---
Banni stepped inside.
Rows of shelves shimmered like holograms — not filled with books to flip, but books to absorb. All subjects, all languages, ancient and modern.
Suddenly, a soft voice echoed:
> "Welcome back, Host. You may now access the Vault. Memory sync and learning transfer permitted as per your will. You need only focus."
> "Host?" she asked, blinking.
> "Yes. You are not just a user, Banni. You are the chosen Host of this space. Every feature will now open as your journey progresses. And today… the Library is yours."
Banni felt a pulse of energy run through her fingertips. She looked at a book titled Indian Constitution – Simplified.
She touched it.
A wave of warmth filled her head — not dizzying, not confusing. Just clarity.
> "This… is how I'll never forget again," she whispered.
---
🌇 That Evening — At Home
Later that evening, the real world called her back.
Banni sat with her father, Mr. Ramesh, and Harsha. The table was filled with forms, brochures, pens, and one steel tumbler of hot coffee passed around.
> "Reputed colleges in Bengaluru are filling fast," Mr. Ramesh warned.
> "Let's not delay," her father agreed. "Banni should get into a proper government-aided college or semi-private one. We can afford good hostel or PG nearby. She deserves it."