In the farthest corner of the Kailash continent, beyond the last road anyone bothered to walk, lay a quiet village called Mrigdhar.
It was not a place of magic, nor one touched by gods. Just hills, rivers, and people trying to live simple lives under a sky that had forgotten how to shine.
One morning, as the fog rolled back from the treetops, a baby was found at the edge of the village.
Wrapped in an old cloth and tucked beneath a peepal tree, he lay still, his tiny chest rising with steady breaths. There were no signs of a mother, no footprints in the soil. No tears. Just a newborn, sleeping softly like he belonged to the earth itself.
The woman who found him — a widow named Maahi — gasped when she saw him.
He wasn't crying.
Just... watching the sunlight dance through the leaves.
The villagers gathered quickly, curious and cautious.
Some said he was a gift. Others feared he was an omen. But when they unwrapped the cloth and found nothing unusual — no jewelry, no talisman, no divine markings — most lost interest.
"There are no signs," the elder grumbled. "Not a cursed child. Not a chosen one. Just another mouth to feed."
Maahi disagreed.
She held the child close and said, "Then let him grow as one of us. Let him have a name."
She thought for a moment, then smiled.
"Call him Aash. If nothing else, let him live with hope."
Years Passed...
Aash Singh grew slowly, like the forest around him — steady, quiet, unnoticed by most.
He helped his mother with firewood, fed the chickens, and chased goats that got too curious. He didn't speak often, but when he did, his words were kind.
He had no memories of where he came from. Not fully.
Sometimes, in dreams, he'd see wheels spinning on a wet road. A cold wind brushing past his ears. Laughter. Screams. A woman in a chair. A hand gripping his.
But by morning, the images faded.
Only the feeling remained — that he had been someone else once. Someone who had tried hard to live a good life... and still lost.
The villagers liked Aash. He wasn't loud or wild like the other boys, but he was helpful. He fed stray dogs without being asked. Repaired the shrine steps when no one noticed. He even once gave his sandals to a traveling beggar.
"That boy's got an old soul," Maahi would often say. "Too gentle for this world."
And though he never told anyone, Aash sometimes felt something stir deep within his chest — especially when someone was in pain or when he stood too close to the old shrine just outside the village.
Like a whisper he couldn't hear... but understood.
The Night It Stirred
It happened on the night of his tenth birthday.
There was no celebration. Just a simple dinner, a warm hug from Maahi, and silence under the stars.
Unable to sleep, Aash walked alone to the old shrine. He liked sitting near the broken Shiva statue there — it made him feel... watched, but not in a bad way.
But as he stood near the stone platform, a sudden sharp pain struck his back — as if something had burned through his skin. He stumbled, clutching the side of the shrine.
It passed as quickly as it came.
When he returned home, Maahi noticed his shirt was torn and damp. She tried to clean the dirt from his back — and paused.
"...Aash," she said softly. "Hold still."
She touched a faint line, then another. Thin black shapes, just under the skin.
But as she blinked, they faded. The lines were gone.
"What did you see?" Aash asked.
Maahi shook her head. "Nothing, maybe. Just shadows... or old eyes."
She didn't mention it again. And neither did he.
But that night, as he fell asleep, a single word echoed in the back of his mind.
"Awaken."
Far away, in a place no map dared mark, something ancient opened its eye for the first time in ten years.