Vipin wakes before the light does.
Not suddenly, not with panic—just with a quiet, insistent awareness that something inside him is empty. His stomach aches in a dull, hollow way that feels older than hunger, as if it has been waiting for him to notice. He lies still for a moment, listening to the house breathe around him, the low creaks of wood settling, the distant shuffle of something alive in the courtyard.
The sky outside the small window is still dark, but not fully night anymore. A thin grey has begun to creep in at the edges, softening the shadows. Somewhere far off, a temple bell rings once. Not loud. Not calling. Just marking time.
Vipin shifts carefully, trying not to wake anyone. The bedding rustles anyway, the thin cotton sheet catching against his legs. His body feels lighter than it should, as if something has been taken from it during the night. He swings his feet down and sits up slowly, grounding himself, waiting for the familiar wobble that comes when his mind forgets how small he is.
The hunger sharpens when he sits.
It isn't dramatic. It doesn't twist or stab. It just sits there, steady and patient, reminding him that yesterday's dinner was not enough to last this body through the night.
He stands and steps out into the narrow hallway, bare feet cool against the floor. The house is quieter now than it ever is during the day, stripped down to its essential sounds. A faint cough from somewhere deeper inside. The soft clink of metal as a pot is moved. A low murmur of breath.
The kitchen glows dimly.
His mother is already awake.
She sits near the clay stove, sari pulled tight around her shoulders, hair tied back hastily, a loose strand brushing her cheek. The flame beneath the pot is low, controlled, barely visible. Milk warms slowly, the surface trembling but not yet rising.
She notices him without turning fully.
"You're up early," she says softly.
Her voice is calm, untroubled, as if this is the most natural thing in the world.
Vipin hesitates at the doorway. He doesn't answer immediately, unsure which version of himself should speak—the child who woke hungry, or the man who understands exactly what hunger costs. He steps forward anyway, the decision made by his body before his mind can interfere.
"I couldn't sleep," he says finally.
She turns then, looks at him properly. Her eyes move over his face, his posture, the way his shoulders sit a little too low.
"You must be hungry," she says, not asking.
She reaches for a steel tumbler and pours the milk carefully, stopping just short of the rim. The smell fills the small space, warm and comforting. She hands it to him without ceremony, her fingers brushing his briefly as he takes it.
"Drink," she says. "It's still warm."
Vipin wraps both hands around the tumbler. The heat seeps into his palms immediately, grounding him. He brings it to his lips and drinks slowly at first, savoring the thickness, the way it coats his mouth and throat. His stomach tightens, then eases slightly as the milk settles.
He drinks faster without meaning to.
The hunger loosens its grip, just a little.
He lowers the tumbler when it's empty, breath steadying, and that's when he notices the jug on the counter beside her.
The water line sits lower than it should.
Not empty.
Just… lower.
He looks back at her glass.
She lifts it now, takes a small sip, then another. The milk inside is paler. Thinner. The surface doesn't cling to the sides the way his did.
Understanding arrives quietly, without announcement.
She diluted hers.
The realization doesn't come all at once. It unfolds, detail by detail. The way she poured his first. The way she waited before filling her own. The careful economy of her movements, practiced enough to go unnoticed.
Vipin feels something tighten in his chest.
Not panic.
Guilt.
It spreads fast, sharp and suffocating, wrapping around his ribs and pressing inward. He watches her swallow and imagines the difference between what she drank and what he did, the invisible transfer of strength from her body to his.
In his previous life, he remembers meals eaten without thinking. Late-night deliveries ordered without glancing at the price. Coffee consumed just to stay awake, never wondering who else was tired. Strength borrowed from unseen hands.
He had called it efficiency.
Optimization.
Now it has a face.
A woman sitting barefoot in a dim kitchen before sunrise, giving away part of herself without hesitation, without expectation of return.
He grips the empty tumbler too hard, metal biting into his fingers.
"I'm sorry," he says suddenly.
The words surprise both of them.
She looks at him, startled, then smiles faintly.
"For what?" she asks gently.
He opens his mouth and closes it again. There is no explanation he can give that doesn't unravel everything. He shakes his head instead, staring down at the floor.
She steps closer and rests a hand briefly on his head, smoothing his hair.
"You didn't do anything wrong," she says. "Go sit. I'll make food soon."
The touch nearly breaks him.
He nods and moves away, sitting on the low step near the doorway, back against the wall. The milk sits heavy in his stomach now, not with fullness, but with consequence. He presses his palm against his chest, breathing slowly.
This strength is not free.
It is borrowed.
And borrowed things demand repayment.
From the courtyard, the morning begins to take shape. A buffalo moos, low and insistent. Another answers. The sky lightens further, grey giving way to pale blue. Somewhere, prayer bells ring again, closer this time, steady and rhythmic.
Life moves forward.
His mother returns to the stove, stirring quietly, the rhythm of her movements unbroken. She hums something under her breath, tuneless but familiar.
Vipin watches her from where he sits, memorizing the slope of her shoulders, the steadiness of her hands. He thinks of his previous life again—not with longing, but with clarity. All the times he let exhaustion justify neglect. All the times he took without noticing who paid the price.
He cannot do that again.
Not here.
Not with her.
If growing stronger means draining her, then strength itself becomes corruption. A quieter kind, but no less destructive.
The thought settles deep inside him, heavy and immovable.
This guilt will not fade.
He doesn't want it to.
It will become his limit.
His governor.
The thing that stops him from crossing lines too easily, from optimizing at the expense of those who cannot afford to lose anything more.
He rises when she calls him for breakfast, movements deliberate, careful. The day is beginning, and with it, the long work of becoming something better than he was before.
But as he steps into the growing light, one truth remains locked firmly in place:
Every ounce of strength he builds from now on must be paid for.
And he will never let the cost be hers again.