The journey from the village stretched into days, each sunrise and sunset marking both progress and exhaustion. The trio—Dev, Shubham, and Laxmi—set out with little more than a bundle of food, a change of clothes, and the determination Singh had left behind.
The first day carried the excitement of departure. The village's familiar fields rolled behind them as they followed the dusty path winding into the hills. Birds called overhead, and the air smelled of rain-soaked earth. For a while, Dev allowed himself to believe this was just another walk—like the ones he used to take with Singh when he was younger. But the quiet ache in his chest reminded him this was different. Singh's absence walked beside him, heavier than the pack on his back.
By the third day, the road grew harsh. Heavy rains turned the path into mud, forcing them to wade ankle-deep through puddles. Their food ran thin, and dinner became a shared half-roti under the shelter of a banyan tree. Shubham complained loudly, groaning that his stomach was as hollow as a drum, while Laxmi teased him for his dramatic cries. For the first time since Singh's death, Dev let out a small laugh—quiet, but real. It startled even him.
At night, the stars glittered like shards of glass scattered across the black sky. Around the campfire, Shubham spoke of his dream to travel beyond the mountains, to see a city glowing with lights brighter than the stars. Laxmi shared her wish for freedom, of not being bound by what people expected of her. Dev listened in silence, his eyes fixed on the flames. He wanted to tell them about Singh's words, about how each dream carried weight—but the lump in his throat stopped him.
On the sixth day, hardship tested them again. A swollen river blocked their path, its waters rushing wild with the memory of recent rains. The only crossing was a narrow log bridge, slick and trembling. Shubham froze halfway, muttering curses under his breath. Laxmi stretched out her hand, urging him on. Dev crossed last, steady and silent, his mind replaying Singh's warning: "A second too late can change everything." His grip on the wet wood tightened.
Strange signs began to appear along the road. On the trunk of an old tree, Dev noticed carvings—symbols he couldn't read, circles intersected with lines, faintly glowing in the fading light. A traveler passing by paused only long enough to mutter, "Not all paths welcome you," before disappearing down a side trail. None of them spoke after that, but each carried a quiet unease forward.
By the time the week drew to a close, their bodies were sore, their feet blistered, and their spirits worn thin. Yet when the hills finally opened to reveal the Ashram, their exhaustion melted into awe.
The Ashram rose from the forest like something carved out of the earth itself. Ancient stone walls, veined with moss, stood tall and silent. Bells chimed faintly in the distance, though no wind stirred the air. A river curved beside the Ashram's outer grounds, its surface so still it looked like a sheet of glass reflecting the fading sun.
Laxmi whispered, "It feels… alive."
Dev said nothing. His chest tightened again, but not with grief—this time, with something closer to dread.
The trio stepped onto the stone path leading to the massive wooden gates. Their footsteps echoed unnaturally loud in the silence. And then—before they could knock, before they could even speak—the gates creaked open on their own.
A monk stood within, draped in saffron robes, his face calm but his eyes sharp. He did not welcome them. He did not smile. Instead, he looked at each of them in turn, as though peeling away the layers of their thoughts.
The silence grew unbearable. Shubham shifted uncomfortably. Laxmi tried to speak, but the monk finally raised his hand. His voice was deep and steady, carrying an unshakable weight.
"Before entering the Ashram," he said, his gaze fixed on Dev, then Shubham, then Laxmi, "prove your worth."
The gates slammed shut behind them with a thunderous echo, leaving the trio trapped in the courtyard.
The real test had begun.