For the first time since arriving in this neighborhood, I wake up without fear sitting on my chest.
It's not gone—fear never really leaves—but it has moved. Shifted slightly to the side, like furniture rearranged to make space for living.
Outside, children are already shouting. A ball hits a wall. Someone laughs too loudly. The sound slips through our open window and lands softly inside the room.
Ayaan stirs beside me.
"Can I go outside today?" he asks, eyes still half-closed.
I don't answer immediately. A few weeks ago, the answer would have been no. Always no. Too many eyes. Too many questions. Too much risk.
But things have changed.
Slowly. Quietly.
"After breakfast," I say.
His eyes open fully. "Really?"
I nod. "Really."
He grins so wide it makes my chest ache. He jumps off the mattress and runs to the door, stopping halfway like he suddenly remembered something important.
"I'll stay near," he promises.
I smile. "I know."
He doesn't know why that matters. He just knows it does.
By the time I step outside with him, the sun is already warm but not cruel yet. The lane is alive in a way I've grown used to—women chatting on doorsteps, someone frying onions, a radio playing an old song.
"Sumiddhi!" someone calls.
I turn.
It's Mrs. Lakshmi from two houses down. She's holding a steel tumbler of tea, steam curling around her face.
"You're up early today."
"So are the children," I reply lightly.
She chuckles. "They never sleep, these ones."
Ayaan has already spotted the other kids. He hesitates for a second, then looks back at me.
"Go," I say softly.
He runs.
I watch him merge into the group—barefoot boys, one girl with short braids, all shouting rules that make no sense. No one questions him. No one asks where he's from.
A small miracle.
Mrs. Lakshmi watches too. "Your brother is doing better."
"Yes," I say. "He likes it here."
She nods slowly. Then, casually, like it doesn't matter, "You're settling in too."
It's not a question.
I smile. And this time, it's real.
Later that afternoon, I sit on the steps with three girls who are definitely not my age—at least not the age they think I am.
Ananya is fourteen, loud and fearless, always talking with her hands. Kavya is fifteen and observant, the kind of girl who notices everything but says little. Meera is sixteen, already convinced she understands the world better than anyone else.
They think I'm one of them.
"You don't talk about your past much," Ananya says suddenly, biting into a mango slice.
I shrug. "There's not much to say."
Meera snorts. "Everyone says that when there's actually a lot."
Kavya looks at me. "You don't have to tell us."
"Yeah," Ananya adds quickly. "We're just talking."
That's the thing.
They don't push.
So I let myself talk anyway.
"I used to live somewhere else," I say. "It didn't feel… safe."
Meera nods like she understands. "My cousin moved because of family drama. People talk too much."
"People always talk," I say.
Ananya grins. "But not about you anymore."
I blink. "What do you mean?"
She leans closer, lowering her voice dramatically. "At first, everyone thought you were hiding something."
My heart stutters.
"And now?" I ask carefully.
"Now they just think you're quiet," she says. "And nice."
Kavya smiles. "And tired."
They laugh.
I laugh too.
It feels strange. Light. Like wearing a color I've avoided for too long.
That evening, I'm sweeping the front when Mrs. Lakshmi's neighbor, Mr. Raghavan, stops by.
"Your brother is fast," he says. "He beat my grandson in running."
Ayaan beams behind me.
"He practices," I say.
Mr. Raghavan nods, then looks at me. "You're doing a good job."
The words hit me harder than I expect.
"Thank you," I manage.
He clears his throat. "If you ever need help… you can ask."
I watch him walk away, heart pounding.
Help.
The word feels dangerous. But also… comforting.
That night, Ayaan talks non-stop while eating.
"They said I can play again tomorrow," he says. "And Rafi gave me his marble."
"That's nice," I say.
"And Ananya didi said you smile more now."
I freeze. "She said that?"
He nods seriously. "I like it when you smile."
I reach for his hand across the plate. "Me too."
When he falls asleep later, sprawled across the mattress like he owns the world, I lie awake listening to the neighborhood breathe.
Doors closing. Distant laughter. Life continuing.
For the first time, I don't feel like we're hiding.
We're living.
And tomorrow—
Tomorrow, I might smile again.
The next morning, Ananya knocks on our door like she owns it.
"Sumiddhi!" she calls. "Are you alive?"
I open it, braid half-done, Ayaan clinging to my leg.
"Yes, I'm alive," I say. "Some of us wake up peacefully."
She rolls her eyes. "That's boring. Come sit outside."
Kavya and Meera are already there, cross-legged on the ground, sharing a notebook filled with badly drawn hearts and names.
"Are you teaching her bad habits already?" I ask.
Meera looks up. "Too late. She's one of us now."
One of us.
The words settle somewhere warm in my chest.
I sit with them, Ayaan darting off to join the other kids without even asking this time. I watch him go, then realize I'm not counting steps, not scanning faces.
I'm just… watching.
Ananya nudges me. "You worry less."
I raise an eyebrow. "Do I?"
"Yes," Kavya says. "Your shoulders aren't up here anymore." She gestures near her ears.
I laugh despite myself. "I didn't know I did that."
"Everyone who's scared does," Meera says, a little softer than usual.
Silence lingers, but it's not heavy.
Ananya flips the notebook shut. "So. If you could leave this place, would you?"
The question feels innocent. It isn't.
I think carefully. "I don't know."
Kavya tilts her head. "That's not a no."
"It's not a yes either," I reply.
Meera watches me closely. "You talk like someone older."
My heartbeat stumbles.
"I had to grow up fast," I say.
They accept it. Just like that.
By noon, the lane is full of noise. Children argue over a ball. Someone's radio is too loud. Mrs. Lakshmi calls out from her balcony.
"Sumiddhi! Did you eat?"
"Yes, aunty!" I call back.
She smiles. No suspicion. No searching eyes.
Later, when I go to fill water, another woman—newer, younger—falls into step beside me.
"You're the girl with the little brother, right?"
"Yes."
"He's polite," she says. "Doesn't fight like the others."
I smile. "He's gentle."
She nods approvingly. "You raised him well."
Raised.
The word catches me off guard.
But she doesn't correct herself.
Neither do I.
That evening, Ayaan refuses to come inside.
"Five more minutes," he pleads.
I pretend to think about it. "Three."
"Four!"
"Three."
He groans dramatically but agrees. The other kids tease him.
"Your sister is strict," Rafi says.
Ayaan straightens. "She's nice."
I look away quickly.
When he finally comes in, sweaty and happy, he chatters about a game I don't understand. I listen anyway.
"You had fun," I say.
He nods. "I like it here."
So do I.
Later, I sit with the girls again. The conversation drifts—school complaints, crushes, dreams.
"I want to leave," Ananya says. "Go to a big city."
"I want to stay," Kavya says. "Be a teacher here."
Meera smirks. "I just want money."
They turn to me.
"What about you, Sumiddhi?"
I hesitate. Then, carefully: "I want… peace."
They don't laugh.
Meera nods slowly. "That's a big dream."
For the first time in a long while, I believe it might be possible.
That night, after Ayaan sleeps, I step outside alone. Mrs. Lakshmi is there, folding clothes.
"You're smiling more," she says casually.
I smile again. "Am I?"
"Yes," she says. "It suits you."
I thank her and go back inside, heart full in a quiet way.
We are still careful.
Still hiding parts of ourselves.
But the walls are thinner now.
And for the first time, I think—
Maybe one day, we won't need them at all
By mid-June, the heat becomes something you stop fighting.
You wake up sweating. You sleep with the windows open. The air clings to skin and breath like it belongs there. Life slows—not because people want it to, but because the body demands mercy.
That's when the festival comes.
Mrs. Lakshmi announces it one morning like a blessing.
"Next week is the temple celebration," she says, clapping her hands together. "Everyone will go. Prayers, lamps, food. Children especially."
The girls squeal.
"I'm wearing the blue salwar," Ananya declares.
"No, the green one," Meera corrects her. "The blue washes you out."
Kavya smiles softly. "Sumiddhi, you'll come too, right?"
I hesitate.
Festivals mean crowds. Eyes. Noise.
But then I look at Ayaan, sitting on the floor lining up his toy cars carefully, humming to himself.
He deserves color.
He deserves music.
He deserves joy that isn't whispered.
"Yes," I say. "We'll come."
The morning of the festival, the lane smells different.
Flowers. Oil. Sweetness.
Women decorate doorways with chalk patterns. Children run around with jasmine in their hair. The temple bells begin early, echoing through the heat like a call to something older than fear.
Ananya drags me into her house.
"You can't wear that," she says, staring at my plain kurta.
"It's clean," I protest.
"It's boring," Meera adds. "Sit."
They lend me a pale yellow salwar. Simple. Soft. Not flashy.
Kavya braids my hair gently. "You look… grown today," she murmurs.
My chest tightens.
Ayaan emerges from the corner wearing a small white kurta Mrs. Lakshmi insisted on. He spins once.
"Do I look good?"
"You look perfect," I say.
And I mean it.
The temple is crowded.
Incense smoke curls into the sky. Bells ring constantly, sharp and insistent. The priest chants, his voice rising and falling like waves.
I hold Ayaan's hand tightly.
We pray.
I don't ask for much. I never do.
Just this.
Just now.
Just safety.
Afterward, people gather outside, sharing sweets and laughter. Ananya waves at someone. Meera disappears into a crowd. Kavya stays close to me.
Ayaan lets go of my hand to chase a boy with a paper flag. I watch him, heart steady.
Then I feel it.
Not a touch.
A presence.
I turn.
He's standing a few steps away, holding a plate of offerings. Dark hair falling into his eyes. Slim. Quiet. He looks young—around the same age people think I am. Maybe a little older.
He looks at me like he's unsure if he should.
I look away first.
Stupid.
Dangerous.
"Do you want prasad?" a voice asks.
I look back.
He's smiling now. Nervous. Gentle.
"Yes," I say. My voice sounds different to my own ears.
He hands me the plate. Our fingers brush.
It's nothing.
It's everything.
"Your brother?" he asks, nodding toward Ayaan.
"Yes," I reply automatically.
He watches Ayaan laugh. "He seems happy."
"He is," I say.
A pause.
"I'm Aarav," he says finally.
I hesitate. Names have weight.
"Sumiddhi."
He repeats it quietly. "That suits you."
My heart does something it hasn't done in a long time.
It wants.
I shouldn't let it.
Kavya returns then, her eyes flicking between us. She smiles knowingly.
"We were looking for you," she says.
I nod, suddenly too aware of myself.
"It was nice meeting you," Aarav says.
"Yes," I reply. "You too."
He walks away slowly, like he hopes I'll look back.
I don't.
Not until he's gone.
On the way home, Ananya won't stop talking.
"Did you see him?" she whispers dramatically.
"I saw nothing," I say.
Meera grins. "Your ears are red."
Kavya says nothing. She just watches me.
That night, after Ayaan falls asleep, I sit by the window listening to distant bells still echoing.
I think of his smile.
His voice.
The way my heart forgot to be afraid for one brief moment.
It scares me.
Not because of him.
But because I want something more than survival now.
And wanting is the most dangerous thing of all
The next morning, the heat has already settled over the lane like a heavy blanket. Ayaan is already outside, chasing Rafi and the others with a plastic ball. His laughter is sharp, bright, carrying across the lane, and for the first time I don't feel the old tightness in my chest when I watch him play.
I step outside, carrying a jug of water, and see Mrs. Lakshmi sitting on her doorstep, folding a bright pink sari.
"Sumiddhi," she calls warmly. "Wait a moment. Aarav is back for the weekend. He'll be joining us for lunch."
My heart stutters—not from surprise, but from the memory of the festival. Aarav. His smile. That quiet way he had of making me feel… noticed.
"You mean he comes home only on weekends?" I ask, trying to sound casual.
"Yes," Mrs. Lakshmi says, glancing at me with a little sparkle in her eyes. "The hostel keeps him busy. Studies. Sports. But he always comes back on Saturdays. You'll meet him properly today."
I nod, unsure whether to smile or brace myself.
Ayaan runs up to me, sweaty and red-faced.
"Didi! Didi! Rafi gave me his marble again!" he shouts, holding the small prize triumphantly.
I ruffle his hair. "Good job, little champion. But don't throw it at him this time."
He giggles and runs off again.
I take a deep breath, thinking about Aarav. How strange it is to feel drawn to someone who, in another life, might have been completely irrelevant to me. And yet… something about him lingers.
By lunchtime, the street smells of spices and fried snacks. I carry a tray of rice and vegetables to Mrs. Lakshmi's house. The front door opens, and there he is—Aarav—standing taller than I remembered, wearing a simple white shirt, hostel bag slung over one shoulder.
"Sumiddhi," he says, smiling as if he remembers me from yesterday even though he probably doesn't.
"I—hello," I manage, my voice lighter than expected.
He glances at Ayaan, who is now perched on Mrs. Lakshmi's veranda, swinging his legs.
"You're growing fast," Aarav says softly to him. "Still winning at everything?"
Ayaan beams. "Yes!"
Aarav laughs. There's something effortless in it, a sound that makes the day feel softer.
Lunch is casual. Mrs. Lakshmi fusses over Aarav, ladling extra curry onto his plate, reminding him to drink water, scolding him gently for sitting with his shoes on the mat. I sit quietly, observing the way he fits into the home here—even though he belongs most of the week to the hostel.
After lunch, the girls—Ananya, Meera, and Kavya—join us outside. They cluster around me as if we're conspiring.
"So," Ananya whispers, elbowing me, "did you see him? He's back!"
"Yes, I saw," I murmur, trying to focus on sweeping the floor.
"He's tall now!" Meera says, eyes scanning Aarav as he picks up Ayaan to lift him onto the swing.
"He looks… nice," Kavya adds quietly.
I flush, unable to reply. The girls exchange knowing looks and giggle.
Later, I wander to the temple with Ayaan for evening prayers. Aarav follows at a respectful distance, carrying a small bag of offerings. The temple smells of incense and sandalwood, the bells ringing steadily above our heads.
Ayaan releases my hand to light a small lamp, placing it carefully near the idol of the deity. Aarav kneels a few feet away, whispering prayers under his breath. I glance at him without thinking—and he catches my gaze.
For a second, something passes between us. Quiet. Electric.
Then he looks down again, embarrassed or shy, and I realize it's fleeting.
We leave the temple, and Ayaan runs ahead to join the other kids playing nearby. Aarav falls into step beside me.
"You come here often?" he asks.
"Every week," I say. "With Ayaan."
"Ah," he says softly, nodding. "It's nice. He seems happy here."
"He is," I say, and it's true.
A silence follows, comfortable but loaded. My heart beats faster than it should, but I tell myself: he lives in a hostel most of the time. This… this is harmless.
By the time we return to the lane, the sun is low, painting the walls gold. Ayaan is sprawled on the ground with Rafi, showing off the marble he won again. I kneel beside him, helping him line up the small toys. Aarav stands nearby, smiling faintly, watching.
"Your brother is clever," he says quietly.
"He learns from me," I reply lightly, brushing hair from Ayaan's face.
He laughs—a sound I want to hear again. "I can see that."
The lane is quieting as evening falls. The neighbors call their children inside. I glance around. For the first time in a long while, I feel… normal. Safe. Integrated.
And then I realize something dangerous.
My chest tightens not from fear, but from anticipation.
Aarav is only here for the weekend. Most of the time, he belongs somewhere else. Yet, something about him—the gentleness, the quiet confidence, the way he treats Ayaan as if he's important—pulls at something in me I've tried to bury.
I shake my head slightly. It's foolish. I'm only fourteen in their eyes. And yet… my heart doesn't listen to reason.
That night, after Ayaan is asleep, I sit by the open window listening to the distant temple bells. They echo through the lane, soft and insistent. I think about Aarav—about how he seems so far away and yet close in a way that frightens me.
I close my eyes.
And for the first time in a long while, I allow myself to imagine something more than survival.
The next morning, the lane is buzzing with energy. Children run between the houses, kicking balls, chasing each other with sticks, and shouting their own private rules. Ayaan is already out front, spinning in circles, laughing with abandon. For the first time in a long time, I don't feel the weight in my chest.
Mrs. Lakshmi steps out of her house, carrying a basket of flowers. She smiles when she sees me.
"Sumiddhi, come inside for a moment," she says softly. "There's something I want to discuss with you."
I glance at Ayaan. He waves at me, completely absorbed in his game. I take a deep breath and follow her inside.
Inside her house, Mrs. Lakshmi settles on a chair, folding her hands in her lap. "It's about school," she says. "You and Ayaan are at the perfect age now. It's time to start going to school, but…" She pauses.
"But?" I ask, my heart tightening.
"You don't have any official documents, do you? No Aadhar cards, no birth certificates… I know what happened with the fire." Her voice softens. "Without them, it's impossible for the school to verify ages or register you properly."
I swallow hard. "Yes… we lost everything in the fire."
She nods, understanding in her eyes. "I have a proposal. I want to be your legal guardian—both of you. That way, I can sign the paperwork, and you can finally go to school. Safely. Properly."
I stare at her. The offer feels… enormous. Dangerous. And yet, a spark of relief flares inside me.
"You'd really do that?" I whisper.
"Of course," she says firmly. "I see how much you care for Ayaan. And you've been managing so well on your own. But this… this will help you both live a normal life, even just a little. I promise I won't interfere with how you raise him. I just want to make sure you both have opportunities."
I think of the girls, the lane, the temple, and Ayaan's laughter. I think of schoolbooks I never had and lessons I never learned.
"Thank you," I say finally, my voice breaking slightly. "It… it means a lot."
Mrs. Lakshmi smiles. "Don't thank me yet. The paperwork will take time, and you'll need to cooperate with the school. But yes… this is a beginning."
Ayaan bursts in from outside, holding a stray cricket ball. "Didi! Look what I found!"
I laugh, ruffling his hair. "I see, little explorer."
Mrs. Lakshmi crouches to his level. "Ayaan, if you go to school, you'll find many more balls and friends to play with."
Ayaan blinks at her, then runs back to the street, shouting for Rafi and the others.
I watch him go. And I feel something like hope—shiny and delicate, ready to grow.
Later that day, I sit outside with the girls again. Ananya flops beside me dramatically.
"So… legal guardian?" she asks, smirking. "That sounds official."
"Yes," I reply, smiling. "Mrs. Lakshmi wants to help us go to school."
Meera leans back on her elbows. "That's great. You deserve it. And Ayaan too."
Kavya nods. "Finally. You can learn like the other kids. You don't have to hide everything anymore."
I realize they're right. The thought is dizzying. School. Friends. A life with fewer secrets.
That evening, the festival from a few days ago still lingers in the air. The lane smells of incense, sweets, and flowers. Ayaan runs with the other children again, this time carrying a small paper lantern he insists on lighting before sunset.
I glance at Aarav, who has appeared near the temple corner, delivering something for his mother. He's still dressed in casual clothes, hostel bag slung over one shoulder, but he looks at me with the same quiet intensity.
"You're busy today," I say softly, approaching him.
"Ayaan keeps everyone entertained," he says, smiling. "And you?"
I shrug. "Trying to keep up."
He chuckles. "You're doing more than that."
I feel my chest tighten. The same dangerous pull I felt during the festival. And yet, I remember—he belongs to the hostel most of the week. I belong to this lane, to Ayaan, to hiding pieces of myself.
"Thanks for helping today," I say. "With Ayaan and… everything."
"You're welcome," he replies simply. But his eyes linger a moment too long, and my heart flutters.
Ayaan tugs at my hand, dragging me to the other children. Aarav steps back, watching us go, and I realize how strange it feels to want someone who is only partially part of my life.
Later, sitting by the window, I hold Ayaan's small hand as he falls asleep. I think of school, of Mrs. Lakshmi's promise, of the girls laughing and teasing me, and of Aarav—so close and yet distant.
I whisper to the dark room, "Maybe… things can finally start to feel normal."
And for the first time in a long while, I believe it might be true.
The morning sun spills over the lane, warm and golden. Ayaan is already bouncing on his toes, backpack slung over one shoulder, tugging at my hand.
"Didi! School!" he shouts. "Hurry!"
I laugh, lifting him carefully. "I'm coming, little whirlwind."
The weight of his excitement makes me feel lighter than I have in months. Today isn't just the first day of school for him. It's mine too.
Mrs. Lakshmi waits at the gate, her smile gentle but firm.
"Are you ready?" she asks.
"Yes," I say. And then, quietly to myself: Fourteen.
My heart flutters. The papers are finally official. The fire may have taken my past, my records, even some of my childhood, but now… now the law says I am fourteen. I am allowed to live as a fourteen-year-old. I don't have to pretend anymore. I can finally feel what I've been denying for so long.
No guilt. No shame. Just… living.
At school, everything is overwhelming. Children swarm in every direction, uniforms bright, shoes squeaking on polished floors. Teachers call out names, and the chatter echoes endlessly.
I hold Ayaan's hand tightly, guiding him through the chaos.
"You'll be fine," I whisper.
He nods seriously, eyes wide, and immediately spots a group of boys with a ball. He runs off before I can stop him.
I laugh. Good. Let him be free.
In class, I sit quietly, feeling the unfamiliar weight of a desk beneath my arms. The other children glance at me curiously. Some whisper. Some giggle. But no one knows my secret. Fourteen, legally, I am one of them now. The truth of my real age—twenty-one—can stay buried.
It's freeing.
During recess, Ananya, Meera, and Kavya appear at the school gate. Their faces light up when they see me.
"Sumiddhi!" Ananya calls, waving frantically.
I wave back, smiling. "I'm here!"
They join me under the shade of a neem tree.
"So?" Meera asks, tilting her head. "First day impressions?"
"Overwhelming," I admit. "But… exciting too."
Kavya nods. "See? Told you it'd be okay."
We laugh together. The first time in a long time, I feel like I belong somewhere. Not hiding. Not pretending. Just… being fourteen.
Ayaan runs to join some boys with a cricket bat. He's loud, confident, laughing freely. For the first time, I don't worry about him. Not about his safety. Not about anyone noticing. He's a child. A real child.
Mrs. Lakshmi's voice reaches me across the playground.
"He's happy, isn't he?" she asks, smiling.
"Yes," I reply. "Thanks to you."
"You don't have to thank me," she says. "Just live. That's enough."
Later, by the temple near the school, Aarav appears again. He's back for the weekend, walking slowly, carrying a small bag. I freeze for a moment—my heart betrays me—but then I remind myself: fourteen. I belong here now. Safe. Allowed to feel.
He smiles at me gently.
"Sumiddhi," he says softly. "You're here too."
"Yes," I reply, smiling. Allowed to smile.
We watch Ayaan play. He runs between us, laughing, calling out to friends. Aarav's presence is calm, steady, and I realize I like that. My chest flutters, yes, but I also feel safe.
"It seems like he fits in," Aarav says.
"He does," I reply. And this time, the words come with lightness. No fear. No guilt. Just truth.
That evening, as the sun sets and the children return home, I sit by our window, watching Ayaan play with the paper lanterns we brought from the festival.
I think about the fire, the lost memories, the paperwork, the weeks of hiding, and finally… the freedom of an official age that isn't mine biologically but allows me to breathe.
Fourteen.
I can be this age now. Live it fully. And it doesn't make me less me. I don't feel guilty anymore for surviving, for caring for Ayaan, for wanting normal things like school, friends, and maybe, quietly, a boy who smiles at me like he sees more than he should.
I realize, with a quiet shock, that it's okay to want these things. It's okay to live.
And as Ayaan laughs, spinning a lantern in the glow of the fading sun, I know we are finally—truly—beginning.