In quiet moments, alone in the forge after midnight, Sharath would stare into the ember bed.
He didn't weep. He didn't rage. But his fingers sometimes trembled—not with fear, but need.
He had died once. He remembered that much now. Earth was a whisper at the edge of his thoughts—cars, electricity, silicon, data. And yet here he was, trying to recreate the future with soot and iron.
Each invention he built wasn't just a marvel—it was a bridge.
A bridge between who he was and who he must become.
He wasn't just a child genius.
He was a flame smuggled across worlds