The dreams didn't come as often now.
Weeks passed. Then a month. The feverish visions, the whispers in foreign tongues, the feeling of being watched by something ancient—all of it dulled, like fire fading into embers. But Hari didn't feel relieved.
Instead, he felt… hollow.
Not in a sad way. Not like something was missing. More like something was changing inside him, making space. His thoughts moved slower but deeper, and the world around him—its sounds, its colors, its people—seemed sharper. Clearer. He could hear the wind rustling the rice stalks like a lullaby, feel the shifts in people's moods before they spoke, sense the patterns in nature without thinking about them.
It was both comforting and unsettling.
He was only seven—but some mornings, he woke up feeling as if he'd lived far too long already.
Ravi noticed it first while repairing the fence behind their hut.
"Did you notice how quiet he's been?" he said, hammering a wooden peg into the soil.
Mrudhula looked up from where she was grinding spices on the porch. "Quiet's not new for him."
"Not like this," Ravi said. "It's in his eyes now. Like he's… somewhere else, even when he's here."
Mrudhula paused, wiping her hands. "He watches the sky a lot lately. And yesterday, I caught him staring at the fire for almost ten minutes. Didn't blink."
Ravi set the hammer down and exhaled. "Maybe we should talk to him."
"What would we even say? We don't know what's happening either."
"Exactly. Maybe he doesn't either."
That evening, Hari sat under the tamarind tree near the fields, surrounded by the kids he used to race and wrestle with just months ago. But now, the games had shifted. The roughhousing had become gentler when Hari was around, the teasing quieter. The younger ones especially stayed close to him—as if simply being near him made them feel safe.
They didn't know what was happening to him. They just felt something was different. So, like moths to a dim but steady flame, they kept close.
Ramu tossed a stone into the air and caught it. "Hari, is it true that lightning is just the sky getting angry?"
"No," Hari said, plucking a blade of grass and twirling it between his fingers. "It's just energy trying to find its way back to the ground."
"Sounds boring," Leela snorted.
"But it's not," Hari said, calmly. "Imagine having so much power inside you that you have to release it… or else you'll destroy the sky itself."
The kids fell quiet.
Even Leela didn't have a comeback.
Amala blinked. "But… it's just light, right?"
"It's more than light. It remembers," Hari murmured.
Kittu frowned. "How can light remember?"
Hari glanced at the boy, then shrugged gently. "I don't know. I just… feel like it does."
The kids didn't quite understand what he meant. But none of them laughed. Instead, they stared at the sunset beyond the hills, letting the silence stretch between them like a shared secret.
Later that night, Ravi sat with Hari by the porch, sharpening a sickle. The crickets were singing, and the moonlight dusted everything in silver.
"Your mother says you've changed," Ravi said, casually.
Hari didn't reply at first. He watched the stars.
"Do you feel different?" Ravi asked again.
Hari finally said, "A little. I don't know why."
"You've been having dreams, haven't you?"
Hari turned to look at him. "How did you know?"
"You talk in your sleep. Sometimes you say words that aren't ours. Sometimes you just cry."
Hari looked down, his hands clenched in his lap. "I don't remember them. But they… they make me feel like I'm someone else. Someone older."
Ravi set the sickle down. "Listen, son. I don't care what those dreams are. Whether they're from gods or ghosts, or just your imagination. You're still my boy. Our boy. You hear me?"
Hari nodded slowly. "I know. That's why I didn't tell you."
Ravi chuckled softly. "That's the most grown-up thing you've ever said. And also the most foolish."
Hari blinked.
"Don't hide from the ones who love you," Ravi said, reaching over to ruffle his hair. "If something scares you, we carry it together."
Hari gave a small smile. "Even if I'm… different?"
"Especially then."
Back in the village, the kids still played, laughed, and argued like always—but when Hari was near, things slowed down. Arguments didn't last long. Fights rarely escalated. Somehow, the boy who used to race them barefoot across fields was now the one they looked at when they didn't know what to do.
And even though Hari didn't understand why they followed him, he felt a quiet responsibility settling on his shoulders.
Not heavy. Just… inevitable.
Something was waiting. A door still locked. A voice still silenced. But for now, he had time.
Time to be a son.
Time to be a friend.
Time to be the boy under the tamarind tree, unknowingly walking toward the ashes of a forgotten flame.