( Kavin's POV )
The sky was just beginning to lighten when Kavin hit the streets on his bicycle, backpack slung over one shoulder and art supplies in tow. He pushed off the curb slowly, letting his wheels ease into motion. The sleepy lanes of Chaitanya Enclave stretched out in front of him, bathed in a faint lavender mist, dew clinging to every leaf and railing. He inhaled deeply. The air was crisp and damp, scented faintly of wet earth and champa blossoms. No barking dogs. No vendors. No traffic. Just silence—with a rhythm.
Pink-orange streaks unfurled across the sky like someone had brushed the heavens with watercolors, promising a clear day ahead. Kavin's hoodie flapped gently in the breeze, and strands of hair fluttered across his forehead. He didn't bother fixing them.
These early rides were something of a ritual now. Since moving here, he had started claiming these hush-hush hours as his own. At this time, the world felt softer, like it was still stretching its limbs and rubbing the sleep out of its eyes. Mornings, he'd discovered, held a quieter kind of magic, the kind most people missed while still tangled in their dreams.
Pedaling swiftly through the sleepy lanes of Chaitanya Enclave, he relished the perfect morning hush. Cool air rushed against his face, tousling his hair as he glided along smooth, rain-washed roads.
As the school building came into view, still quiet and waiting, he checked his watch—ridiculously early. Just how he liked it. More than enough time to set up in the art room before anyone else showed up.
With a cheerful wave to the watchman and the janitor, he strode toward the Art Clubroom. He stepped inside, flicked the lights on, and was greeted by the familiar smell of turpentine and paper. Mrs. D'Costa had kept her promise and left the door unlocked—after a good amount of pleading on his part. But it was worth it. Having the space to himself was a rare luxury.
Grabbing a stack of flyers for the upcoming ceramics workshop, he moved through the corridors, pinning them to notice boards one by one. He had managed to rope in a decent number of students, but he needed more to make the event a real success.
---
By mid-morning, fatigue had started to creep in. He slouched over his desk in English class, half-awake, doodling in the margins of his textbook. The author's portrait had transformed under his pencil into a sharp-jawed man smoking a cigar. At the front of the room, Ms. Iyer droned on about modal auxiliaries. There were no club meetings today, which meant he could head home early. Good. The excitement of the workshop planning had kept him up most of the night, flitting between color palettes and email drafts.
By the time the final bell rang, he was running on fumes. After a quick goodbye to his friends, he wheeled his bicycle out of the gate, eager to crash on his bed.
The moment he stepped into the house, the warm aroma of rajma and garlic greeted him like a hug. He smiled, drifting toward the kitchen where a note was taped to the fridge:
"Me and Papa are attending a promotional event at the museum. We'll be back by dinner."
Ah, right—Art in Bloom. Something about blending visual art with nature. His mom had been excited about it for days. And with his sister off on a school trip, the house was unnaturally still.
The silence wrapped around him, thick and sudden. He brushed off the odd pang in his chest and fixed a plate of food. The Rajma was warm and delicious. He devoured it standing at the counter. The dishes were done in minutes. After changing, he collapsed into bed, letting the exhaustion finally pull him under like a warm tide.
---
A loud bang snapped him awake. His heart stuttered as he blinked into the evening light pouring in through the windows. The voices of the elderly couple next door echoed through the open window—they were probably heading out for their daily walk.
Six O' clock?! He sat up abruptly. No wonder he felt so disoriented. He'd slept for three straight hours.
Some air might help.
After changing into something light, he tossed a sketchpad into a tiny tote and stepped outside, letting the door click softly shut behind him. The streets were hushed in a different way now—long shadows stretching like lazy cats across pavements, the amber glow of the sun draping everything in molten gold.
---
He made his way to the neighborhood park—a little patch of calm tucked behind shrubbery and old fencing. He entered through the smaller gate near his house, the one most people didn't bother with.
Kavin had discovered the perfect spot here just a few days ago: a quiet corner beneath a gnarled Champa tree, its thick branches always in bloom, dropping soft petals like confetti on the grass. It was slightly hidden from the main path, just how he liked it.
The park was bathed in honeyed light, shadows stretching like long fingers across the grass. Kavin walked past benches, a rusted swing, and a couple of stray dogs napping under a lamppost that hadn't yet lit up.
At the far corner, hidden behind a thick patch of shrubs, stood his tree—the Champa.
Its bark was twisted and worn, branches sprawling outward like arms mid-dance. The petals scattered at its base looked like little fallen stars, fragrant and pale against the grass.
He settled down on the grass, back against the trunk, and pulled out his sketchpad. The scene in front of him was just asking to be drawn.
He started slow—just lines, gentle outlines of the leaves, the sloping trunk, the way the light trickled through the canopy and speckled the ground.
His fingers moved like they remembered what his eyes hadn't even noticed yet. Shadows. Texture. Curve. Stillness.
"This spot's perfect," he murmured to himself, admiring the harmony of light and form in his drawing.
Just then, something shifted in the corner of his eye.
A shape. A silhouette. Moving slowly along the path.
Kavin looked up, hand pausing mid-sketch.
Someone was walking through the golden haze.
Kavin squinted.
And then a smile bloomed across his face.
Vihaan.