Weeks turned to months, and with each passing season I grew bolder and wiser. I had seen both wonder and warning in my powers. Deep inside me, a storm of reflection grew. Was I playing god, or merely exploring the bounds of fate?
My introspection deepened when I saved Arun, that cruel boy, from a fall in the forest. He lay safe and unconscious after slipping on mossy stones. I had impulsively willed, "Let him awake unharmed." When he did, bleeding only a scratch, he woke smiling, thanking me in confusion. Once he recovered, he looked at me differently — with humility and curiosity instead of arrogance. Arun's change stirred guilt and pride in me. I realized that in weaving someone's truth, their path altered. Was it fair that I could change their fate so easily?
Sometimes I would catch my reflection in water and see two eyes: one thoughtful and sad, the other firm with resolve. The two souls inside me — the village child and the secret scholar — were finding an uneasy truce. I understood: with great ability came great silence. I could not tell family or friends what I truly was; the risk of exposure was too high.
So I tightened my secrecy like a knot. Even Kittu noticed only that I sometimes seemed happier if Mother or Father were safe from a problem. I would simply smile at him. In my heart, the knot held my ambitions and fears together. Even as I took cautious steps to improve our lives, I was aware that every strand I pulled could snap another.
At night, lying under starlight, I asked myself if I was worthy of this gift. The ancestors in our stories faced trials of virtue; perhaps this was mine. In the silence, I found clarity: no matter how I had come by this power, I must use it wisely — for family, for fairness, but not for frivolous dreams. Tomorrow was another test, and I was ready.