By the time Rohit reached home, the streets had grown quieter. Only the faint barking of a stray dog in the distance and the low hum of ceiling fans echoed through the sleepy neighborhood. He pushed open the creaky gate, careful not to wake the sleeping puppy curled up near the stairs—one that often found shelter in their compound during summer nights.
The living room glowed warmly under a soft yellow bulb. His mother sat on the sofa, surrounded by a sea of papers, registers, and a half-watched television show humming gently in the background. Her glasses rested slightly down her nose, and a pen was tucked into her bun. A large notebook lay open on the coffee table—covered in student lists, schedules, and her usual neat, looped handwriting.
She looked up as soon as she heard the gate.
"There you are," she said, smiling softly, placing the pen down. "Our CR also knows how to hit sixes now, huh? Congratulations, champ."
Rohit chuckled, walking over to her. "Thanks, Ma."
"Go, freshen up. I'll keep dinner ready," she said, already gathering some of the papers into a pile. "Long day tomorrow."
He nodded and walked past her into his room.
Rohit's room was like a slice of his soul.
Soft fairy lights framed the edges of his window. A wall was covered with aesthetic posters of old Bollywood films—from Dil Chahta Hai to Swades—each carefully placed, no crooked edges. Opposite that wall, a row of cricketer posters dominated: Dhoni raising the World Cup, Virat's cover drive freeze-frame, and an old picture of Sachin with his bat raised.
Near the corner stood his acoustic guitar, its strings slightly worn, but well-maintained—he often played it during late evenings, strumming soft chords when the world fell quiet.
He walked over to his vintage-style radio, an old habit he'd never let go of. He turned the knob gently until the voice of an RJ filled the room.
"...and that was a beautiful track from Rockstar. Coming up next, we've got a love letter from a listener who's secretly crushing on her best friend…"
Rohit smiled faintly.
With the voice in the background, he grabbed his towel and walked into the bathroom for a quick shower.
The cold water washed away the sweat and dust of the match. The moment his face met the running water, he let his mind drift. That dream—the one with the mysterious girl in the woods—flashed back briefly. The touch. The eyes. Her breathless fear. And his instinct to protect.
Why had it felt so real?
He shook the thought away.
When he stepped out, drying his hair with a towel, he found his mother waiting in his room. She had just ironed his school uniform—a crisp white shirt and navy trousers—and was placing them neatly on the dressing table.
"You forgot to take this with you," she said gently. "I thought I'd leave it here before you go to sleep."
Rohit smiled.
"Thanks, Ma."
She turned to go but paused near the door.
"Come eat. I've made your favourite—aloo paratha. And salad too."
He raised an eyebrow.
"What's the occasion?"
She grinned.
"Just a small celebration for my school cricket champion."
At the dining table, the fan creaked above them, and the warm smell of ghee and coriander filled the air. His mother poured him water, then sat across with her own plate.
Between bites, she began speaking—half to herself, half to him.
"There are a lot of new admissions this year. The office was buzzing the whole day. I think we've had more transfers and newcomers than ever before."
"Hmm," Rohit said, chewing. "You're taking tenth grade again, right?"
"Yes. Same batch, but new faces mixed in. I'm also in charge of a few admin tasks this time. Student lists, mentor allotments... It's all chaos. But I feel like..." she paused, "I feel like it's going to be a good year."
Rohit nodded thoughtfully. "Hope so."
She smiled. "New beginnings are always good, Rohit. Even if they feel unfamiliar at first."
He didn't say anything, just looked down at his plate.
After a pause, she asked, "Did everyone else get home safely? It was late when you left the café."
"Yeah, they did," he replied, reaching for the water. "Simran's dad sent the driver to pick them up. So Simran, Shubhangi, and Manmeet all reached early."
His mother nodded approvingly.
"Good. That's thoughtful. And Yogesh?"
"He was with me. We walked home together."
She tilted her head. "He still dreaming about junior year girls and fairytale romances?"
Rohit chuckled.
"Worse. Now he's predicting that I'll fall for someone this year."
"Well," she said with a knowing smile, "he might not be wrong. You never know what a new year brings."
"Ma…" he groaned, mock annoyed.
She raised her hands in surrender.
"Fine, fine. No teasing. Finish your paratha."
As the night wore on, Rohit found himself enjoying the calm after a stormy, noisy day. His mother talked about her classes, about a new biology teacher who was supposed to be joining from another city, and about a parent-teacher meeting scheduled the coming week.
Rohit mostly listened. But in the background, something stirred.
That dream again.
The way he caught the girl just in time. The way her hair moved in slow motion. The fear in her breath. And the strange sense of déjà vu it left behind.
He shook his head slightly and picked up another piece of paratha.
Tomorrow was just another school day.
Or so he thought.