Hari woke before dawn. The house was quiet, the only sound the faint rustle of the wind pushing against the wooden shutters. He sat up slowly, his thoughts circling the memory of last evening under the banyan tree—the star he had imagined, the warmth that had bloomed in his chest, the golden vision that had made the world shine with unbearable clarity.
He shut his eyes tightly, trying to call the sensation back. He pictured the star again, suspended in darkness, its light pulling at something deep within him. But nothing stirred. His chest remained empty, his heartbeat flat and ordinary.
Hari tried again, this time holding his breath until his lungs ached, as if the pressure itself might spark something. He tried sitting cross-legged, then lying on his back, then clutching his hands together as though holding the star in his palms. Still, there was nothing. Only silence. Only disappointment.
The longer he failed, the sharper his frustration grew. Was yesterday just a dream? A trick of his tired mind?
He slipped out of bed and went outside. The sky was still gray, streaks of pink rising in the east. The fields stretched endlessly, rows of crops shivering in the breeze. Hari stood there, staring, and willed himself to feel something—anything. But the world remained the same as always, ordinary and dull.
A voice cut through the silence.
"Hari! What are you doing out so early?"
It was Ravi, carrying a bundle of rope over his shoulder. His father's brows furrowed when he noticed the tension in his son's face. "You look as though you've lost something precious."
Hari hesitated, then spoke in a low, uncertain tone. "Father… do you remember what I told you yesterday? About how I felt something inside me… something I couldn't explain?"
Ravi paused. His mind flickered back to what Mrudhula had whispered the night before, her voice shaky with shock—the sight of their son's eyes shining gold. A chill had gone through him then, but he hadn't dared speak it aloud.
"Yes, I remember," Ravi said carefully. "And? Did you feel it again?"
Hari shook his head, his fists clenching at his sides. "No matter what I try, I can't. It's like it was never there. But I know it was real. It was so clear, Father, like the whole world was alive inside me. Why can't I feel it again?"
Ravi set the rope down and walked closer, placing a hand on Hari's shoulder. His son's eyes burned with desperate curiosity, and Ravi felt a pang of both pride and fear.
"I don't know," Ravi admitted softly. "I've worked the land my whole life. I've only ever known the feel of soil in my hands, the weight of the plow, the rhythm of rain and harvest. Magic…" He let out a small, uncertain laugh. "I wouldn't know the first thing about it."
Hari's gaze searched his father's, almost pleading. "But you believe me, don't you? You think it might be magic?"
Ravi thought of those golden eyes again, how Mrudhula had clutched his arm in panic when she saw them. He exhaled slowly. "Yes, Hari. I believe it was magic. At least, something like it. There's no other word for what you described."
Something flickered across Hari's face—relief mixed with determination. "Then tell me more. Please, Father. I want to know what magic truly is. I want to feel it again. I want to understand it."
Ravi's heart ached at his son's urgency. He wished he had answers, wished he could hand Hari the knowledge he craved. But he could only offer honesty.
"I'm sorry, son," he said gently. "I can't tell you more. I've never touched magic, never felt it. Whatever it was you experienced, you'll have to discover its truth on your own. Only you can find that path."
Hari lowered his head, staring at the dirt beneath his feet. A heavy silence stretched between them. He wanted to protest, to cry out that it wasn't fair—that the mystery had been placed in his hands and then stolen away. But he swallowed the words.
After a long pause, Ravi spoke again. "Do not be discouraged. Some truths… they are like seeds. You can't force them to sprout. You plant them, you water them, and one day—when the time is right—they push through the soil on their own."
Hari lifted his eyes. The metaphor struck him more deeply than he expected. Seeds, growth, waiting—it was the rhythm of life he knew so well from the fields. Perhaps magic, too, had its own seasons.
Ravi gave him a small smile and patted his shoulder. "Come, we have work to do. The land doesn't wait for us to sulk."
Hari nodded reluctantly, though the hunger in his chest remained. As he followed his father toward the fields, he glanced once more at the horizon. Somewhere beyond the hills, beyond the ordinary rhythm of farming and festivals, he felt his answers waiting.
That night, Hari tried again in secret. He sat cross-legged in his room, imagining the star, willing his chest to ignite. For a heartbeat, he thought he felt something—like a faint whisper brushing against his heart—but it slipped away before he could grasp it.
Frustration burned in him, but beneath it, a strange certainty grew. Magic wasn't gone. It was there, waiting.
And he would not stop searching until he found it again.
That night, long after the household had gone quiet, Hari lay awake beneath the thin blanket. His father's words repeated in his head, circling endlessly. Seeds. Seasons. Waiting.
He turned to his side, staring at the faint light of the moon spilling through the small window. Somewhere in that pale glow, he imagined the star again—the same one that had burned so bright in his heart before fading. It seemed to wink at him, as though daring him to reach for it.
But no matter how tightly he closed his eyes, no matter how hard he tried to breathe in rhythm with the world outside, nothing happened. No warmth. No pulse. Only the steady silence of the night.
Hari clenched his fists beneath the blanket. The hunger to feel it again gnawed at him, sharper than ever. And yet… he remembered Ravi's gentle voice, the way his father had admitted ignorance but still encouraged him. That honesty meant more than false answers ever could.
From the other room came the sound of his parents breathing, steady and calm. He thought of his mother's shocked face, her attempt to hide it with a smile, and his father's quiet acceptance. They didn't understand, but they believed in him. That belief was enough, for now.
Hari exhaled slowly, forcing himself to relax. The world wasn't rushing him. Perhaps magic truly did have its own seasons, just as the earth had rain and drought, planting and harvest.
As his eyes drifted shut, he whispered into the darkness, almost like a vow.
"I'll wait… but I won't stop searching."
The stars outside glittered faintly, and though Hari didn't notice, a thin golden sheen lingered in his irises for the briefest moment before fading back to their normal color.