Hari could not let go of that sensation.
It haunted him like a song half-remembered, a star seen only once and never again. The night he had closed his eyes and felt the world blossom around him had left an imprint too deep to ignore. Every heartbeat since seemed to echo with the memory of it—of warmth spreading through his chest, of colors blooming behind his eyelids, of the world whispering to him in a language that felt older than the earth itself.
But when he tried to reach it again, there was nothing.
The next morning, he woke earlier than usual and slipped away before his mother could notice. The fields stretched out before him, silvered by dawn, a hush lying heavy over the village. He found a quiet spot beneath the neem tree near the stream and sat cross-legged, imitating what he had done before. He steadied his breath, closed his eyes, and searched inward.
He imagined the star.
He willed the flicker to return.
Minutes stretched into what felt like hours. Only the trickle of water and the distant call of a bird filled the air. His chest rose and fell, but no warmth stirred, no golden light bloomed. The star remained dark.
Hari opened his eyes with a groan, tugging at his hair in frustration. "Why won't it come back?" he muttered, kicking a pebble into the stream. Ripples spread across the water, mocking him with their effortless grace.
He tried again later that day, and again the next. Each attempt left him more restless, more desperate. The memory of the sensation burned inside him, but the harder he chased it, the further it slipped away.
One evening, unable to contain himself, he told his father.
Ravi listened quietly as Hari described everything—the light behind his eyes, the rush of beauty even with them closed, the sense that the world itself had opened its arms to him. Ravi's face grew grave as Hari spoke, his calloused fingers curling around the handle of his sickle.
"So that was what your mother saw," Ravi finally said, his voice low.
Hari blinked. "You mean… when she noticed my eyes?"
Ravi nodded. "She told me your eyes shone gold for a moment. I thought it was a trick of the firelight, but… hearing this, it must have been something else." He hesitated, then sighed. "Hari, I think what you felt might be magic."
The boy's breath caught. The word itself was heavy, forbidden and sacred all at once. "Magic?" he whispered, the way one might whisper a prayer. "Father, can you tell me more about it? Please—I want to feel it again."
But Ravi shook his head. His expression was unreadable, caught between wonder and unease. "I cannot. I don't know what it is to feel magic. I have lived with soil under my nails and the sun on my back all my life. Magic belongs to tales, not to men like me." His gaze softened, but his tone was firm. "You'll have to figure it out on your own, son."
The words struck Hari like a stone. On his own. That night, he lay awake on his cot, staring at the ceiling while the voices of crickets filled the darkness. Magic—if that was truly what he had touched—was no longer just a dream. It was a reality, and it had chosen him, if only for a fleeting instant.
The next day, he wandered deeper into the fields, away from the bustle of the village. The sky was a sharp blue, the breeze carrying the scent of earth and grain. He sat again, closed his eyes, and reached inward.
But the flicker still refused him.
His breathing quickened, and anger burned in his chest. He clenched his fists, forcing his thoughts to stillness, forcing the star to appear. He imagined it so vividly that his head ached—but the darkness inside remained unbroken.
Frustration welled up, hot and bitter. He slammed his palm against the ground.
And then it happened.
The air around him stirred. The grass at his feet quivered though the breeze had died. The earth beneath his palm gave a faint shiver, and for the briefest moment, he thought he heard a murmur—like the sigh of roots deep beneath the soil.
Hari gasped and snatched his hand back. The world went still again, but his heart thundered in his chest. Had that been real? Or had his mind, desperate for answers, played tricks on him?
He sat there trembling, staring at his hands. Nothing glowed, nothing burned, yet he could not shake the memory of the ground shifting beneath his touch.
That evening, Ravi noticed Hari's distracted air. "Did you try again?" he asked softly.
Hari hesitated. Part of him wanted to blurt it all out—the shiver of the earth, the whisper in the soil—but something in Ravi's steady gaze stopped him. Instead, he nodded once. "Yes. But… it didn't work."
Ravi placed a hand on his shoulder. "Hari, listen to me. If this is magic, you must be careful. Do not speak of it to anyone else, not even your closest friends. People fear what they don't understand. Promise me."
Hari swallowed hard and nodded. "I promise."
But that night, as he lay in the dark, his thoughts burned. He remembered the way the earth had stirred, the whisper beneath his skin. Perhaps he had failed to summon the flicker—but something inside him had still answered.
The star was there. Waiting.
And he would find it again, no matter how long it took.