The first thing Aarav noticed when he stepped off the train in Baragaon wasn’t the platform.
It was the smell.
Soil after rain.
Ash from kitchen fires.
Something lost… and something growing.
It had been nearly five years since he left.
Baragaon had not forgotten him.
The village square was busier now.
The old banyan tree had a bench underneath it.
A new well had been built on the east side, and two houses had blue tarpaulin roofs—temporary, but safer than before.
Children ran barefoot.
Women gathered to chop vegetables.
A young girl walked past, holding a schoolbag with a stitched patch:
“I Write My Truth”
Aarav stopped.
“Where did you get that?” he asked gently.
She looked up. “From the new school, saab. The teacher gave us these.”
“What school?”
She pointed.
Beyond the
