The first thing Vipin learns is that distance lies.
He steps forward with the confidence of a grown man and slams straight into the doorframe. Wood thuds against his forehead—not hard enough to injure, but sharp enough to sting and announce his mistake to the entire house.
Someone chuckles.
Not cruelly. Just reflexively.
"Easy," a man's voice calls from the courtyard. "Where are you rushing off to?"
Vipin blinks. He hadn't even seen the speaker. The voice carries authority without effort—the kind that doesn't need eye contact to correct you.
"I wasn't—" he starts, then stops. The sentence collapses on itself. He lowers his head and steps forward again, slower this time.
The courtyard opens in front of him, and the scale of it unsettles him immediately. The ground stretches farther than it should. The walls feel higher. The open space presses down instead of offering relief.
Nothing here is actually large.
It only feels that way from where he stands.
He takes another step and nearly stumbles. The stone rises faster than his body expects. He jerks to recover his balance, arms lifting instinctively before he forces them back down.
"Dheere," someone says casually. "You'll fall."
A hand grips his shoulder briefly—firm, absent-minded—then lets go. The touch isn't comforting. It's corrective, like adjusting a crooked chair.
Vipin's face warms.
"I'm fine," he says automatically.
The words come out thin. They don't travel. He hears them disappear into the courtyard without landing anywhere.
That scares him.
He moves toward the hand pump, scanning the ground now, recalibrating with each step. The world keeps arriving late. Distances collapse without warning. His body memory keeps lying to him.
Near the pump, a steel lota sits filled to the brim.
"Take that inside," someone says without looking at him.
Vipin nods and reaches for it.
He grips it with adult confidence.
The weight surprises him immediately.
His fingers slip. The lota tilts. Water sloshes violently over the rim and splashes onto the stone floor, cold and loud. A sharp metallic clatter rings out as he overcorrects and nearly drops the vessel entirely.
For a moment, the courtyard goes quiet.
Not angry. Just… aware.
Vipin freezes, heart hammering. His hands tighten around the lota, knuckles whitening as he forces control back into his grip.
"Tch," a woman mutters from near the kitchen. "Careful. It's not a toy."
A few soft laughs ripple through the space.
Vipin swallows and lifts the lota again—this time with both hands, elbows tucked in, movements smaller. He carries it the rest of the way without spilling another drop.
The success feels humiliating.
A boy barrels past him, barefoot, skidding to a stop near the pump. He vaults the step in one smooth motion, grabs another vessel, and runs off laughing.
Vipin watches him go.
That movement should have been nothing.
He lowers himself onto the edge of a step near the wall, careful to test the height before sitting. His heels don't touch the ground.
That shouldn't matter.
It does.
From here, he can see the house moving around him—chores flowing, voices overlapping, routines continuing without interruption. No one lingers on his mistake. No one offers reassurance. The moment has already been absorbed and forgotten.
Vipin hasn't forgotten it.
He slides off the step and stands again, forcing his body to comply. Smaller steps. Lower expectations. Fewer assumptions.
He passes the same doorway he hit earlier and clears it cleanly this time.
The success is small. Quiet. Almost invisible.
But it's real.
Vipin places a hand briefly against the cool wall, grounding himself.
He understands something now, with uncomfortable clarity.
This body isn't malfunctioning.
It's simply unfinished.
And until it catches up with the demands his mind keeps placing on it, everything—walking, carrying, existing—will cost more effort than it should.
He exhales slowly and moves on, deliberately keeping to the edges of the courtyard, already learning how little space this world expects him to take.