Pavan had successfully forted his little sister, Pooja, easing her worries about his departure to the Triveni Gurukul, the most prestigious academy in all of Arthlok. With a soft smile on his face, he stood up from where he’d k beside her, feeling the warmth of his sister’s relief, yet knowing that an even heavier task awaited him: he had to tell his friends about his decision.

  The house, once a pce of fort, now seemed to weigh on him, the familiar walls closing in slightly with the gravity of his upiure. Pavan walked out of his room and desded the narrow stairs to the main hall of his home, where the aroma of spices and freshly prepared food wafted from the kit, mixing with the soft hum of a nearby drone h outside the window.

  The kit, modest but filled with life, ace where memories were cooked and shared with love. His mother stood at the stove, her back turned as she stirred a pot with rhythmic precision. The soft sizzle of spices hitting the pan was like a heartbeat—steady, familiar, grounding.

  Pavan gnced around the hall for a moment, notig the details of his home that he had often taken frahe worn, wooden furniture his father had crafted years ago, the family portraits hanging crooked on the walls, the faint hum of the household’s AI assistant projeg holographiotifications in the background. Everythi… precious.

  He approached his mother, his steps steady, though his mind raced with thoughts. What would his friends say wheold them? How could he expin the uainty, the fear of leaving behind the life he khe sense of finality weighed on him like a lead b, making each step feel heavier tha.

  Pavan: "Mom," he called out softly, his voice calm but carrying the weight of

  what was to e, "I'm heading out to meet my friends. I might be back a little te."

  His mother turned from the stove, her hands busy but her heart clearly with him. Her eyes, soft and warm, flicked toward him briefly, though she didn’t meet his gaze. She didn’t o. Mothers always knew when their childreroubled.

  Mother: "Alright, but don’t be too te, Pavan," she replied, her voice carrying the quiet worry only a mother have, her hands never pausing in their work.

  As Pavan nodded and turo the door, he was about to reach for the doorknob when a sudden shimmer of light caught his eye. Out of nowhere, tiny glowing green cubes began to appear in mid-air, assembling themselves rapidly into a sleek smartphohat hovered just within his grasp. The cubes, familiar and ever so mystical, blinked in and out of existence as they coalesced into the device—a simple but beautiful maion of Chee's power.

  Pavan smirked, his heart warming as he realized who was behind the gesture. His hand shifted from the doorknob, and he grasped the phone, chug inwardly.

  Pavan (thinking): Thank you, Chee.

  His thought traveled telepathically to his ever-watchful panion, who was still i, her ethereal presence a quiet for the house. Chee, though silent, had been helping his mother prepare the evening meal. Her long golden hair shimmered uhe low light, her hands delicately moving with a grace that seemed out of pce for something as mundane as cooking.

  I, Chee’s green eyes flickered toavan for just a moment, a knowing smile pying on her lips as she heard his silent message. She hadn’t said a word, but that was how they unicated—an unspoken bond deeper than words.

  Pavan’s mother noticed the affeate exge, though she chose to remain quiet about it, as she always did when it came to Chee. There was an uandiween them, an unspoken reition that Chee was no ordinary presen their lives.

  Chee, though not human, had bee part of their family, her role in Pavan's life more vital than anyone knew.

  With the phone now in hand, Pavan quickly dialed Vikram’s he line rang a few times before his friend picked up, the sound of the familiar ringing bringing a new weight to Pavan’s thoughts. How would they react to the hat he was leaving?

  Pavan: "Hey Vikram, meet me at the temple on the hill. I've got something important to tell you." His voice carried excitement, but underh it was a yer of ay he couldn’t quite mask.

  Oher end of the line, Vikram, a 17-year-old boy with dark hair and a lean build, was sitting on the edge of his bed. His eyes were distant, his mind clearly preoccupied with something heavier than usual. There was a subtle tension in the way he sat, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of his bedspread. He hadn’t shared his troubles with a, but Pavan’s call seemed to offer a temporary distra.

  Vikram: "I’ll be there in 10 minutes," he replied quietly, his voice g its usual spark, tinged with something Pavan couldn’t quite pce—perhaps sadness or something deeper.

  Pavan paused for a moment, sensing the unusual tone in Vikram’s voice but deg to let it go for now. He had his owo deliver, and he’d have to focus on that.

  Pavan: "Oh, and bring Krishna with you too," he added quickly, trying to keep his voice light.

  Vikram: "Yeah… I’ll get him. I o talk to both of you anyway." Vikram’s words were deliberate, the hint of sadness still lingering, as though something ressing on his heart, but he wasn’t ready to let it out.

  After hanging up, Pavahe weight of the momele in. His life was about to ge forever, and as much as he wao pretend it wasn’t a big deal, the truth was he needed his friends by his side more than ever.

  Meanwhile, Vikram, after ending the call with Pavan, immediately dialed Krishna’s he ph only once before Krishna answered, his voice already tinged with frustration. He didn’t even give Vikram a ce to greet him.

  Krishna: "What?" he barked into the phone, his frustration evident.

  Vikram, unfazed by his friend’s tone, kept his voice steady. There was no time for small talk.

  Vikram: "Be at the hilltop temple in 10 minutes." His voice was calm but urgent, cutting through Krishna’s frustration with crity. Vikram didn’t wait for a response, ending the call quickly before Krishna could argue.

  Krishna, standing in the middle of his living room, was already in the middle of an argument with his father. His normally posed demeanor was crumbling, his anger bubbling over as he tried, once again, to pry the truth from his father. His eyes, normally sharp with humor, were now bzing with fury.

  Krishna: "Dad, just tell me the truth for once! What have you been hiding from me?" he demanded, his voice raised.

  His father, seated on the worn sofa, remained infuriatingly calm, refusing to meet his son’s gaze. The silence was deafening, more painful than any argument could have been. It was as if his father was deliberately ign the storm brewing in his own son’s heart.

  The quiet, dismissive demeanor only fueled Krishna’s anger further.

  Seeing his father wouldn’t respond, Krishna turoward his mother, who stood silently in the doorway of the kit. Her face was torween for her son and helplessness in the face of her husband’s stubborn silence.

  Krishna softened his voice when addressing his mother, though the frustration was still thi his tone.

  Krishna: "Mom, I’m going to meet my friends," he muttered, the hurt still lingering in his words, though he tried to temper it for her sake.

  He then turned back to his father, his eyes bzing o time before he spoke with quiet, trolled anger.

  Krishna: "This isn’t over, Dad. I’ll deal with you when I get back." His words dripped with bitterness as he stormed out, the door smming shut behind him.

  Ihe house, the tension hung in the air like a thick fog. Finally, after a long silence, Krishna’s father sighed deeply and turo his wife.

  Krishna’s Father: "I don’t know if we’ve raised a son… or my father." His voice was weary, burdened by the weight of years of secrets. "Did you hear the way he talks to me? Like he’s the one in charge," he grumbled, rubbing his temples.

  Krishna’s mother, watg her husband with a soft smile, poured him a gss of water and brought it over to him, gently pg it in his hand.

  Krishna’s father shook his head, gripping the gss tightly.

  Krishna's father sat heavily on the edge of the worn wooden sofa, his broad shoulders saggih the invisible weight of years of unspoken tension. His hands gripped the edges of his knees, knuckles white, while his brow furrowed deeper with every passing moment. Across the room, Krishna had just stormed out, leaving behind a silehick with unresolved flict.

  The air in the house felt charged, like the moments before a thuorm when the wind shifts and everything seems to hold its breath.

  Krishna's Father: "I don't know if we've raised a son... or my father." His voice came out as a low grumble, though the edge of bitterness was unmistakable. "Did you hear the way he talks to me? Like he's the one in charge.

  "He shook his head, staring at the floor in disbelief.His own son, with that same fiery determination, that same stubborn refusal to bend—it was both infuriating and... familiar. The same qualities that once made him proud of his boy now seemed to widen the rift between them.

  Krishna's mother moved gracefully from the kit, where the warm st of turmerid lingered in the air, ging to her like a soft, familiar perfume. She was a woman of few words, but when she spoke, her voice carried the wisdom of years, a calm amidst the storm that often brewed between her husband and their son.

  She walked over to her husband, filling a simple gss of water from the earthen jug on the ter. The sound of the liquid p into the gss seemed to soothe the tension in the room, if only slightly. Without saying a word, she brought it to him, her soft steps barely audible on the wooden flently, she pced the cool gss in his calloused hands.

  Krishna's Mother: "He's just like your father, you know." Her words were tender, spoken with a quiet uanding. She sat beside him on the sofa, her hand ing to rest on his arm, the small gesture grounding them both. "Strong-willed, stubborn, but only because he cares so deeply. Give him time. He'll uand.

  "Her smile was faint but reassuring, the kind of smile that had seehrough years of both joy and hardship. Her gaze drifted toward the door where Krishna had exited just moments ago, as if she could still feel the echo of her son’s frustration lingering in the air. She knew her son—he was his father’s mirror in so many ways. The same ahe same passion, but also the same depth of love that her father nor son knew how to express.

  Krishna’s father sighed deeply, his fiightening around the gss. He stared straight ahead, his chest rising and falling with a heavihat he couldn’t seem to shake. In the dim light of the room, his weathered face looked older than it had just a few moments ago, like the years had suddenly caught up with him all at once.

  Krishna’s Father: "I just want him to be happy." His voice cracked slightly, the vulnerability slipping through the rough exterior. "That’s all I care about."

  His eyes flickered with aion he rarely let show—worry, fear for the future, and most of all, love for a son who was so much like himself.