The flickering glow of a single oil lamp cast long shadows across the room. Its light swayed gently with the draft, brushing over the boy's pale face as he stirred awake. A dull ache pulsed through his arm when he tried to move. Only then did he notice the bandages—thick wrappings on his head and hand.

He stared at them with furrowed brows, confusion lacing his expression. Why were his arms bound like this? He slowly rotated his wrist, wincing as pain shot through his nerves. The sharp sting forced him to lower his hand back onto the cot, his breath trembling.

"Hey! What are you doing?"

The old woman's voice cracked the silence like a whip. She stood near the clay stove, her frail hands clutching a wooden ladle. "Lie down properly! And drink this soup," she scolded, hobbling closer.

Before he could answer, a warm bowl was pressed into his hands. He hesitated, bringing the edge to his lips for a cautious sip. The moment the liquid touched his tongue, his face twisted. "Blahhh… ahhhnnn—bitter!" he cried, gagging dramatically.

The granny smacked her lips. "Oh, what a fuss! Listen here, boy—medicine is always bitter. Good things often taste bitter but feel great after. Now drink it silently before I lose my patience."

From the corner, mala burst into giggles. She leaned against the doorway, her arms folded. "Drink it, or she'll use the feeder spoon. You know what that means?" Her grin widened as she continued, voice dropping into a mock whisper.

"She'll grab your head, pinch both your nose holes, hold down your legs and hands, and force your mouth open. Then—" she gestured dramatically, mimicking the motion of pouring—"straight down your throat! And if you even think of spitting it out…" Her tone turned wickedly playful. "She'll clamp your lips shut so tight you'll cry for air. Even one drop wasted? She'll make you lick the floor clean."

She pushed her sleeve up and flashed a faint scar on her forearm. "See this mark? That's from when I refused. She beat me with that stick over there!"

The boy's eyes darted to the corner where a wooden stick leaned against the wall. His throat bobbed nervously.

"Drink it quickly," the girl chirped before darting out with a laugh that trailed down the hall.

He sat frozen, bowl trembling in his hands. What was happening here? His thoughts were cut short by a sudden thwack, the stick landed near his cot, tossed from the doorway. A voice, calm yet sharp, followed. "Drink it."

He didn't wait another second. Clamping his eyes shut, he gulped down the bitter brew in one breath, even holding back his gag reflex out of sheer terror.

Laughter erupted as the girl reappeared, pointing gleefully. "Granny, he drank it! All of it—in fear!"

The boy barely caught his breath when she appeared again, this time with a mud cup of water. She held it up. "Drink this now," she said sweetly.

He reached for it, but before his fingers touched the rim, she tilted it sharply toward his face. "Quick, or I'll tell you another story."

........................

"Enhh…" He grumbled softly, snatching the cup from her hands and gulping the water down. She grinned, plucking the empty glass away and flipping it onto the pitcher with a quick twist.

"Good boy," she said, her eyes gleaming with mischief. Then, tilting her head, she asked, "Are you angry?"

He gave a stiff nod.

In response, she scrunched up her face into the silliest expressions she could muster—puffed cheeks, crossed eyes—but he just stared blankly. Finally, she reached forward and tugged at his cheeks. "How can I make you laugh, hmm?"

His lips parted, and in a small, shaky voice, he whispered, "Mother."

Her playful grin faltered for a second before she forced a laugh. "Ahhh… this little boy." She patted his head gently, then pressed him back onto the bed. "Go to sleep."

He shut his eyes obediently—only to yelp when a sharp tug caught his ear.

"Ha! You laughed!" she accused, raising her hand as if to smack him.

"Enough," Granny barked from across the room. "Go make the bed and sleep beside him."

"Yes, Granny!" she sang out, still grinning.

As she fluffed the bedding, she leaned close and whispered, "Remember—if someone calls you at night, don't answer. Not until the third time. Understand?"

He nodded slowly.

"Good. Because night's call loves small boys." Her eerie tone sent a shiver down his spine, even as she broke into laughter.

That night, the house fell silent and sleep finally claimed him.

....................

He woke to faint noises drifting in from outside—murmurs, footsteps, a distant clang like someone dropping a pot. For a moment, he lay still, staring at the ceiling, expecting pain to stab his body as it had before. But nothing came. No ache, no sting. Just silence and that strange calm that didn't feel earned.

He sat up slowly, testing his arms and legs as if they belonged to someone else. Everything moved fine. No bandages tugged, no wounds throbbed. A glass of water sat by his bed; he reached for it, his reflection warping in the ripples. The first gulp felt like swallowing sunlight.

The door burst open.

"Bad guys," Mala muttered, storming in, her brows knotted. "Always looking at us with those short eyes." She slammed the door and turned to him. "Granny's looking for you."

Before he could ask why, a shadow slid in like smoke. Granny. Her voice creaked like old wood, but her laugh was sharp. "Hunh, they came for fun, as they always do when something big is brewing. And you…" Her gaze pinned him like a nail. "You finally woke."

Jimmy nodded, unsure if that was the right answer.

Granny shuffled closer, her hand cool against his cheek. "What a cute boy," she whispered with a grin that didn't reach her eyes.

He frowned. "Who are you?"

"I don't know," she said, then laughed—a high-pitched, broken sound that spiraled into the walls. Hihihihihihi… Jimmy turned his head away, confusion prickling his spine.

"Here." A clay cup appeared in her hand. "Drink this." The liquid inside smelled faintly of roots and metal. He sipped, wincing at the bitterness, and felt heat crawl down his throat.

As he began arranging his bed, Mala leaned against the wall with a smirk. "Wow, what a good boy. Do mine too?"

Before Jimmy could answer, Granny smacked Mala's arm with a sharp thwap. "Don't trouble him. He's not here for chores." Her gaze flicked back to Jimmy, softer now, almost curious. "Where is your home? From where did you come?"

Jimmy paused, fingers tightening on the blanket. "I… don't know. I can't remember anything. Where I came from… it's all gone."

Granny stared for a long beat, her smile thinning. "Then stay," she said finally. "When your memory returns, you'll leave."

"Can I really stay here?" he asked, the question tasting strange in his mouth.

"Of course." The word left her lips like a promise.

Before he could breathe, shouts erupted outside. Doors slamming. A rumble of voices. Granny moved to the door, her shawl dragging like a shadow. "Go see. Take Mala."

Mala huffed. "Aren't they belittling us too much?"

"What's happening?" He asked, stepping after them.

Granny turned, eyes glinting like wet stones. "Little boy, speak no word to anyone. Use signs. It's safer." Then, with that same broken laugh: "Changing fate? Nothing changes. It flows like water in a river—never stagnant as a pond."

...............

Is fate truly that powerful, or do we shape it with every choice we make?

Do our lives begin as blank pages, or do we carry the ink of past virtues and sins?

If we are born anew, why does our consciousness not remember where it once wandered?

Where are those forgotten memories hiding—the folds of the soul, or in the silence of time?

Are we prisoners of a script already written, or authors rewriting an endless draft?

What if every meeting, every loss, is a debt being paid from lifetimes unseen?

Why does the heart ache for places it has never been, and people it has never met?

Is suffering punishment, or a teacher shaping us for something greater?

If destiny exists, does hope have meaning—or is hope the rebellion against destiny?

Does the soul keep its scars, even when the mind forgets its battles?

And when we die, do we awaken from a dream, or fall into another one?

The answers lie ahead… in Nirbindra.

To be continued…