(Jan 1–Jan 5, 2015)
The new year dawned in the valley wrapped in winter's pale breath. Frost clung to the edges of pine needles, tiny crystals catching the morning light like a scattering of diamonds. The mountains loomed in the distance, their slopes swaddled in snow, but here on the 100-acre site, the weather felt softer, as if the forest itself was guarding its heart from the harsher winds above.
Arjun stepped down from his jeep, boots crunching on the half-frozen earth. His breath curled into the air, fading into the mist that rose from the pine-covered slopes. He paused for a moment, simply listening. The forest was not silent—it was alive with whispers: the creak of tall trunks, the far-off caw of a raven, the almost imperceptible gurgle of water far beneath the surface.
The land was his now, but he still felt like a visitor, an intruder in something ancient.
He walked deeper into the site, the damp scent of moss and pine filling his lungs. His AI companion, Aarya, flickered a soft blue holographic map in his vision—visible only to him. "Topographical scan complete," she murmured in his earpiece. "Underground anomaly detected—source appears to be a subterranean water flow, historically mapped but currently inactive."
That caught his attention.
By noon, he found himself at the edge of a clearing where a handful of villagers had gathered, curious about the "young man from the city" who kept returning to the forest in the dead of winter. They were bundled in thick shawls, faces browned and lined by years of mountain wind.
One man, tall and wiry with a cane made from a bent branch, stepped forward. His eyes had the deep-set calm of someone who had seen more winters than most would live through.
"You're the one who bought the valley," the elder said in Garhwali, his tone neither accusing nor welcoming.
"I'm the one," Arjun replied in the same tongue, earning a flicker of surprise.
The elder's gaze swept across the land. "It used to be different here. You see those slopes?" He pointed to the hills rising eastward. "They were once alive with wildflowers. We had a spring, too—pure water that ran year-round. The women would come down with clay pots, laughing. You could hear their voices echo through the valley."
Arjun's curiosity sharpened. "What happened to it?"
"Died," the elder said simply. "Or maybe we killed it. A landslide, years back. Rocks buried the channel. The flowers stopped coming after that." He gave a small shrug, as if it were just one more loss in a lifetime of them.
Arjun nodded, storing the story away. In his hidden dimension, he had the technology to bring back that spring, maybe even revive the valley to the way it once was—but not yet. Not until the estate was ready.
The old man's voice softened. "Land remembers. If you care for it, it will give back more than you can imagine. But if you take without giving…" He trailed off, looking into the mist. "It will turn its back."
They talked until the sun began to set, the temperature dipping sharply. The elder shared tales of wild boar hunts, of festivals held under the moonlight, of a time when the valley's scent was so rich with blossoms that it carried for miles.
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Side POV – Hari Lal, the Elder
That night, back in his small stone house, Hari Lal sat near the chulha fire, the smell of burning pinewood curling in the air. He thought about the young man with sharp eyes and a polite voice. City folk rarely listened—really listened—to old stories. But this one had stood still, nodding, asking questions, as though each word was worth weighing.
Hari Lal sipped his tea slowly. "Maybe," he muttered to himself, "he's not here to ruin the land like the others." Still, a lifetime of winters had taught him caution. Outsiders always wanted something, and the valley had given too much already.
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Back at the site, Arjun climbed a small ridge before heading home. Below him, the mist curled like a living thing, sliding between the pines and clinging to the valley floor. He imagined the spring running again, the hillsides alive with blooms, the laughter of villagers drifting on the wind.
One day, he promised silently. We'll bring it back.
In the distance, the faint orange lights of the village glimmered through the fog—tiny sparks in a vast, sleeping world. And deep beneath the frozen ground, unseen and unheard, the old water waited.
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