The bus groaned its way up the narrow road, wipers squealing across the windshield in uneven arcs. Outside, the rain was coming alive — not yet a downpour, just a restless drizzle, turning the dust to a thin, dark paste.
Dev leaned his forehead against the glass. The world beyond it looked warped and trembling — the tall coconut trees bending in the wind, electric wires sagging under fresh weight. The hum of the engine mixed with bursts of laughter from the front seats, where a group of younger boys were singing some out-of-tune film song.
His father sat beside him, half-turned toward the aisle, chatting with another parent — the postmaster, who liked to argue about politics every morning. Their voices floated through the bus, low and unhurried, full of that familiar adult certainty that made Dev tune out.
He watched the streaks of water sliding down the window. One droplet paused near his reflection — caught, as if indecisive — then darted sideways when the bus hit a pothole.
From somewhere behind came the sound of chewing gum popping. Meera's voice, sharp and amused:
"Chew with your mouth closed, Ani. You sound like a frog in a blender."
Dev turned, half-smiling. Meera sat two rows back with her friends, uniform untucked, a thin silver anklet visible where her skirt shifted. She caught him looking and raised an eyebrow — not unfriendly, not exactly teasing either. Just a small flicker of acknowledgment.
He turned back to the window.
"Caught again?" his father murmured beside him.
"I wasn't—"
"I was seventeen once," his father said, chuckling. "The symptoms are universal."
Dev rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward.
The bus turned onto the bridge over the canal. Below, the water was thick and dark, carrying floating leaves and plastic bottles. The smell of wet algae drifted in through the open vents.
Halfway across, thunder rolled again — closer now. The driver switched on the headlights though it was barely past eight. The sudden light made the rain look silver, every drop distinct for a heartbeat before it vanished against the windshield.
The road ahead curved between palm groves. Dev's father tapped the metal bar above their seat, a nervous habit.
"Funny," he said quietly. "The world looks slower when it rains, doesn't it?"
Dev nodded. The bus felt slower too — each sound stretched out, each motion deliberates. The chatter dimmed; even Meera had fallen silent.
Another turn. The rain thickened. The driver squinted, wiping the fog off the inside of the glass with a rag. Wipers struggled. The tires hissed over the slick road.
Dev's father checked his watch again.
"Just five more minutes," he said.
Then something flickered across the road — a blur of motion.
A dog, sprinting.
The driver shouted. The bus swerved.
Metal screamed against stone. The world tilted.
Dev felt his seat rise beneath him — then nothing.
No sound. No impact.
Only stillness.
The raindrops on the glass stopped mid-descent. The bus hung at an impossible angle, frozen in the act of falling.
Dev blinked, breath caught in his chest. His father's hand was still reaching toward him — fingers a few inches away — unmoving.
The thunder outside was silent. The dog on the road was suspended mid-stride, droplets of mud hanging in air around its paws.
Dev's heart hammered, but the world refused to move.
He stood. The seat creaked faintly under his weight, though no one else stirred. His classmates were statues of fear, mouths open, eyes wide. The entire scene — a painting of catastrophe paused mid-brushstroke.
Dev whispered, "Appa?"
No reply.
He took one trembling step forward, then another, the soles of his shoes echoing strangely in the dead air. The silence was complete — so absolute he could hear his own pulse behind his ears.
Outside the window, a single droplet of rain hovered inches from the glass. He reached out, pressed a finger to it. It didn't burst. It didn't move.
When he drew his hand back, the droplet trembled faintly — and began to fall again.
The world exhaled.
Noise returned all at once — the crash, the screams, the breaking glass, the roar of twisting metal — a single impossible instant.
Then darkness.