Cold Nights, Restless Days
Winter was thinning—but not gently.
It pulled back like something unwilling to leave, claws scraping just beneath the surface of normal life.
It began with silence.
No birds. No dogs. No usual hum of scooters warming up.
Abhay noticed it first.
He stepped outside and felt it immediately—the air was damp in a way it shouldn't be. The bucket near the handpump trembled faintly, surface rippling without cause.
The Sudarshini was low this time of year.
It wasn't supposed to sound close.
But it did.
Devgarh ran as usual—attendance taken, chalk dust floating, winter sun slanting through windows.
But Abhay couldn't focus. His notes blurred. His hand cramped around his pen like he was holding something back.
Across the room, Ishanvi pressed her palm flat against the desk. The wood felt warm. Too warm.
She pulled back sharply.
Their powers weren't reacting to danger.
They were reacting to each other.
And to the river.
By afternoon, clouds gathered suddenly—thin, fast-moving, wrong for the season.
Classes were dismissed early.
"Straight home," teachers warned. "No stopping."
They followed orders.
Almost.
At the bend near the old banyan tree, Abhay stopped his scooter.
"Ishanvi," he said quietly. "Do you hear that?"
She did.
Not sound—direction.
A pull in her chest. A heat rising without flame.
The Sudarshini wasn't roaring.
It was insisting.
They stood at the bank as dusk settled, siblings kept deliberately behind under the excuse of fog and cold.
The river moved differently now.
Slow. Coiled. Alert.
Abhay stepped closer.
The water responded—lifting slightly, curving inward like it recognized him.
Ishanvi's breath hitched. The cold around her receded just a little.
"This isn't about us," she whispered.
Abhay nodded. "It's about what's coming."
For the first time, the river did something unmistakable.
The surface cleared—just for a second—revealing something dark lodged between stones.
Not a body.
Not an object.
A mark, burned and etched into rock by force that wasn't natural.
Ishanvi staggered back.
"That's not water damage," she said, voice shaking. "That's heat."
And Abhay understood.
Whatever had taken their parents hadn't been an accident.
And it hadn't been alone.
They left before the river could show more.
Some truths demand preparation.
That night, Abhay didn't avoid Ishanvi.
He sat beside her on the veranda, shoulders almost touching.
"I'm done pretending this will go away," he said.
Ishanvi nodded. "Me too."
Their powers didn't surge.
They steadied.
The river remembers what people bury. Fire remembers what water tries to erase.
And winter, in its final days, had delivered a message:
This story isn't done asking for answers.