Shiva walked.
He did not fly.
He did not vanish.
He walked.
Across broken stone and drifting ash, away from the ruins of Daksha's yajna, Shiva moved with Sati's light cradled in his arms. The glow was soft, gentle, like the last warmth of a setting sun, yet within it Ganesh could feel the echo of her boundless presence.
Each step Shiva took sent a subtle tremor through the world.
Not of destruction.
Of mourning.
Behind him, Ganesh followed in silence, his head bowed, the fire within him subdued by the weight of his guru's sorrow. Aneet walked beside him, her calm presence the only still point in a world that now seemed to tremble with every breath.
The sky above had darkened, though no night had been called. Clouds gathered and parted without rain, as if even the heavens did not know how to weep.
Shiva did not speak.
But the silence around him was louder than any roar.
They crossed realms as one might cross fields.
Mountains bowed as Shiva passed.
Rivers slowed their flow.
Forests fell quiet, their leaves trembling without wind.
Wherever his feet touched the ground, life paused — not in fear, but in reverence.
Ganesh felt it deeply.
"The world knows," he whispered to Aneet. "It feels his grief."
Aneet nodded softly. "Because his grief is not only his. It is the wound of love itself."
They walked through the lands of devas, where celestial gardens dimmed and music stilled. Apsaras who once danced in joy now stood silent, heads lowered, as Shiva passed with Sati in his arms.
They walked through mortal realms, where sages in deep meditation suddenly opened their eyes, tears streaming down faces they did not yet understand.
They walked through wild places untouched by thought, where even beasts lay down and watched in stillness.
Everywhere, the same hush followed them.
At last, Ganesh gathered the courage to speak.
"Gurudev," he said softly, stepping closer. "Where do you walk?"
Shiva did not look at him.
"I walk where she still is," he replied. "And where she is no longer."
Ganesh felt the words settle into him like cold fire.
"You will not find her in any place," Ganesh said gently. "She has returned to you."
Shiva's grip tightened slightly around the glowing light.
"Yes," he said. "And yet I walk."
Aneet stepped closer. "Because movement is all that remains when stillness breaks."
Shiva turned his gaze toward her for a brief moment.
"You understand," he said.
Aneet bowed her head. "Grief does not seek answers. It seeks space."
Shiva said nothing more.
And they continued.
As they moved, the world began to respond.
From the far corners of creation, whispers spread:
"Mahadeva walks."
"Shiva carries Sati."
"The still one has become the wanderer."
Devas gathered at the edges of realms, watching in awe and fear. Some fell to their knees. Others followed at a distance, unsure whether to approach.
Indra, wounded and humbled, watched from afar, his heart heavy.
"This grief will not pass easily," he murmured to Vishnu, who stood beside him.
Vishnu's gaze followed Shiva's distant form.
"No," he said softly. "And it should not."
Indra looked at him. "Can the worlds endure this?"
Vishnu replied, "The worlds endure because he walks. If he did not, they would already be undone."
Back with Shiva, the ground beneath their feet began to change.
The air grew thicker.
A low hum filled the space, like the echo of a thousand distant bells.
Ganesh felt it.
"Gurudev… your grief is stirring the fabric of the worlds."
Shiva's voice was distant. "Let it stir."
The fire within Ganesh flared slightly, not in rebellion, but in concern.
"If this continues," he said carefully, "the worlds may fracture. Not from your power… but from the weight of your sorrow."
Shiva stopped.
For the first time since leaving the yajna, he stood still.
The silence deepened.
He looked at Ganesh, his disciple, with eyes that now held both infinity and unbearable pain.
"You think I do not know this?" Shiva asked quietly.
Ganesh lowered his head. "I know you know, Gurudev. But I also know that you listen, even when pain speaks louder."
For a long moment, Shiva said nothing.
Then he looked down at the light in his arms.
"Sati," he whispered. "Even now, they worry for the worlds more than for us."
The light pulsed softly, as if answering.
Shiva closed his eyes.
"When you were here," he said, "you were my bridge to the world. Now, without you… every step away from stillness feels like betrayal."
Aneet spoke gently. "Not betrayal. Remembrance. You walk because you loved. And love does not vanish with loss."
Shiva opened his eyes again.
"You speak truth," he said. "And yet truth does not ease the wound."
Ganesh stepped closer. "Then let us carry the world for you, while you carry her."
Shiva looked at him steadily.
"That is why you walk with me," he said.
They continued again.
But now, Shiva's steps grew heavier.
With each stride, subtle tremors rolled farther. Mountains cracked. Oceans heaved slightly. Even the stars seemed to flicker in the sky.
The Saptarishi, watching from afar through their inner sight, felt it.
Vashistha said gravely, "The world cannot bear this walk for long."
Vishwamitra clenched his staff. "Then something must stop it. Or guide it."
Kashyapa closed his eyes. "Not stop. Transform. Grief cannot be forced to end. It must be carried into stillness again."
They sent their prayers outward, not to command Shiva — for none could — but to prepare the worlds for what might come.
Ganesh felt the change too.
The fire within him rose, seeking balance.
"Gurudev," he said again, "where will this walk end?"
Shiva replied, "It will end when the world no longer remembers her as absence… but as part of itself."
Aneet frowned slightly. "And how will the world learn that?"
Shiva did not answer directly.
Instead, he looked toward the vast earth below, its lands and seas shimmering in the distance.
"By touching it," he said.
Ganesh felt a deep chill.
"You mean… her presence will fall into the world."
Shiva nodded slowly.
"Yes. Her being will become the world's memory."
Ganesh understood then.
"This will change the earth forever."
Shiva replied quietly, "So did her life. Why should her passing do less?"
As they descended toward the earthly realms, the air grew warmer, heavier.
The sky shifted into hues of twilight, even though no sun was setting.
They came to a high peak overlooking vast lands and oceans.
Shiva stopped once more.
He looked out across the world.
And for the first time since Sati's sacrifice, his breath shook.
Ganesh felt it like a wave.
Aneet reached out slightly, her hand hovering near Shiva's arm, not touching, but offering presence.
"Mahadeva," she said softly, "the world waits. But so do you."
Shiva lowered his gaze to Sati's light again.
"Sati," he whispered, "if you must become the world, then let it be a world worthy of you."
The light in his arms flared gently.
And as it did, Ganesh felt a shift — not yet a breaking, but a beginning.
The grief was reaching a point where it could no longer remain only within Shiva.
It would soon spill into creation itself.
Behind them, the devas and sages who followed at a distance felt it too.
"This walk is nearing its turning," Indra said.
Vishnu nodded. "Yes. The moment where grief becomes geography."
Indra looked at him in confusion.
Vishnu replied softly, "You will see. The earth will remember her in ways no ritual ever could."
Ganesh stood beside Shiva, gazing out across the world.
"Gurudev," he said, "whatever comes next… I will not leave."
Shiva looked at him.
"I know," he said.
Aneet stepped closer. "Nor will I."
Shiva's eyes softened, just a little.
"You both stand where even gods hesitate," he said. "That is why the world still breathes."
They stood together, at the edge of the turning moment.
Above them, clouds gathered.
Below them, the world waited.
And in Shiva's arms, the light of Sati pulsed, ready to become more than memory.
The walk of endless grief was nearing the moment when grief would shape creation itself.