The sun stood tall in the sky over South Crest, bathing the gentle hills and farmland in a golden light. The air was warm, and the smell of fresh soil lingered after the morning watering. Birds chirped lazily in the distance, and the distant murmur of village life echoed faintly. Vishwa sat cross-legged on the wooden porch of Maari's farmhouse, methodically repairing a frayed basket. The repetitive task gave his hands something to do, though his mind remained elsewhere, distant—reflecting on a past not easily forgotten.
Suddenly, the steady rhythm of his hands paused. The rumble of wooden wheels and the clattering of hooves approached from the gravel path. A small wooden cart crested the bend, pulled by a familiar donkey and steered by a young man with broad shoulders and a confident, purposeful gaze. The boy, around twenty, jumped down before the cart had fully stopped.
"Grandmother!" he called out, a broad smile breaking across his face.
Maari emerged from the house, surprised but delighted. "Joseph!" she cried, her frail voice rich with joy. She stepped forward, hugging him tightly, her eyes moist with relief. "You're finally home."
Joseph embraced her warmly, lifting her slightly off the ground in his excitement. "It's good to be back," he said, his voice full of pride. "The voyage was long, but I learned a lot."
Just then, Joseph's gaze shifted to the porch, where Vishwa had stood. Their eyes met—one filled with curiosity and cautious pride, the other with calm humility.
"Who's he?" Joseph asked, a subtle edge in his voice.
Maari turned, her hand resting lightly on Joseph's arm. "Joseph, this is Vishwa. A stranger who was injured and collapsed in our fields. We took him in. He's been helping around while recovering."
Joseph's eyes narrowed slightly. "Helping? Or... replacing someone?"
Vishwa rose and bowed politely. "Thank you for letting me stay in your home. I owe your grandmother and Hitami my life."
Joseph nodded curtly but didn't offer a smile. "Hmm."
Later that afternoon, as the sun dipped lower and shadows grew longer, Joseph sat beside Maari on the veranda, sipping cooled barley tea. He glanced toward the field where Vishwa tended to a patch of young sprouts.
"He doesn't talk much," Joseph said.
"No," Maari agreed. "But he listens well. He's been through something… something heavy. But he's healing."
"He's quiet, sure. But Hitami talks to him like they've known each other forever."
Maari looked at Joseph knowingly. "She sees something in him. Maybe peace. Maybe strength. Maybe both."
Joseph looked down into his cup. "She used to wait for me like that."
That evening, as golden light bathed the farmhouse, Hitami ran up with wildflowers bundled in her arms. "Vishwa! Look what I found!" she called, tugging his hand. Vishwa smiled, letting her drag him toward the backyard, where they arranged the flowers in an old ceramic pot.
Joseph watched from the doorway, arms crossed, tension in his jaw. A flicker of jealousy, sharp and undeniable, stirred within him.
He wasn't used to being second.
The next morning, the dew still clung to the grass as Vishwa heaved a bale of hay onto the cart. Joseph approached, arms folded, eyes set.
"So," he said casually, "you practice martial arts?"
Vishwa didn't turn. "A little. Not as I used to. Still recovering."
"I picked up techniques overseas. Sparred with some real warriors. You ever try that?"
Vishwa nodded faintly. "Years ago."
Joseph stepped closer, his tone tightening. "Then let's spar. One match. No weapons. Just movement, technique, spirit."
Vishwa finally turned, curious. "Why?"
"To see what you're made of. Everyone's treating you like some lost hero. Let's see if it's true."
From the porch, Hitami's voice rang out. "Joseph! Don't be mean!"
He didn't reply. His eyes stayed locked on Vishwa.
Vishwa's face remained calm. "Alright. I accept."
Joseph smirked, satisfied. "Tomorrow morning. East field."
He turned and walked away.
Hitami rushed over, clutching Vishwa's sleeve. "Are you really going to fight him?"
Vishwa looked out toward the rising sun. "He's not fighting me, Hitami. He's fighting something inside himself."
She looked up at him, confused.
"Sometimes," he continued softly, "people fight when they don't know how to speak."