Samye did not know how long he had been unconscious.

  When awareness slowly returned, the first thing he felt was warmth. Not the burning heat of fire or the cruel cold of rain—but something gentler. A blanket rested on his body. The floor beneath him was wooden, not muddy. The smell of wet earth was gone, replaced by the faint scent of herbs and old paper.

  He tried to move.

  Pain answered immediately.

  His throat burned like sand. His limbs felt heavy, distant, as if they didn’t fully belong to him anymore. He forced his eyes open.

  A dim room greeted him. Simple. Small. A single oil lamp flickered on a table, casting long shadows on the walls. Shelves filled with old books and worn objects surrounded the space. Near the doorway, an old man stood, holding a bowl of water.

  “You’re awake,” the old man said softly.

  Samye tried to speak, but only a dry rasp escaped his lips.

  The old man stepped closer and helped him drink. The water felt like life itself flowing back into his body.

  “Easy,” the man said. “You’ve been through enough.”

  Later, when Samye could finally sit up, he asked the question that burned inside him more than thirst.

  “Why… did you help me?”

  The old man studied him for a moment. His eyes were tired, lined with years of grief, but gentle in a way Samye hadn’t seen in anyone for days.

  “You are a child of humanity,” the old man replied.

  Samye didn’t understand the words—but something in his chest tightened.

  That night, rest did not come easily.

  As Samye lay on the thin mattress, exhaustion pulled him under, but sleep betrayed him.

  He was running.

  Running as fast as he could.

  Ahead of him, he saw his parents—alive, smiling, reaching out to him. His childhood home stood behind them, untouched, whole. His past life called to him like a distant light.

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  “Ma! Papa!” he screamed.

  He ran faster.

  But the closer he tried to get, the farther they became. The distance stretched unnaturally, endlessly. His legs burned, his lungs screamed, but he couldn’t stop.

  Then the scene shifted.

  Flames.

  His parents’ bodies burned before his eyes. Smoke filled the air. People surrounded him—faces twisted with hatred. Stones flew. One struck him. Then another.

  Arjun’s face appeared.

  Meera’s voice echoed.

  Why don’t you just die with your parents?

  Samye screamed.

  He jolted awake, his body drenched in sweat, his breath wild and broken.

  “NO—!”

  The oil lamp rattled as he sat up violently.

  The old man rushed in, startled.

  “It’s alright,” he said quickly, placing a steady hand on Samye’s shoulder. “It’s fine. No one is here.”

  Samye trembled uncontrollably, his chest rising and falling like he was still running.

  “You’re safe,” the old man repeated calmly. “You’re not alone.”

  Slowly, the nightmare loosened its grip.

  Later, as Samye regained some strength, the old man asked gently, “How did you end up in the forest?”

  Samye opened his mouth.

  Nothing came out.

  The words tangled inside him, crushed under the weight of everything he had lost. His hands clenched unconsciously.

  The old man noticed.

  He nodded once and said nothing more.

  “I know this world,” the old man said quietly. “It doesn’t need explanations to be cruel.”

  He handed Samye some food and gestured toward the bed.

  “Eat. Rest. We’ll talk in the morning.”

  That was the last kindness the old man would ever offer him.

  Morning came.

  Sunlight filtered through the window, soft and pale. Samye stirred and sat up, feeling slightly stronger than before.

  He looked around.

  The old man sat in his chair near the table, facing the window.

  “Sir?” Samye said.

  No response.

  Samye stood, his heart suddenly uneasy, and walked closer.

  The old man’s eyes were closed. His posture was peaceful. Too peaceful.

  Samye reached out and touched his arm.

  Cold.

  The old man had died sometime during the night.

  Just like that.

  Grief washed over Samye—not sharp, but heavy. Another person gone. Another silence added to his life.

  On the table lay a folded note.

  With trembling hands, Samye opened it.

  “If you are reading this, young man, then my time has ended.

  Do not blame yourself. My life has been waiting for this moment for a long time.

  I once had a son. The government came for him when ability testing became law. He had no powers—only a kind heart. He wanted nothing more than to care for his mother and father in their old age, to live peacefully.

  Their methods were cruel. My son did not survive the facility.

  Since that day, I have been waiting to meet him again. My body has lived longer than my soul wished to.

  I helped you because you reminded me of him. He was your age when they took him. I could not let you die alone in the rain.

  Listen carefully, my son. Something tells me your journey is far from over.

  This watch was meant for my child, in case he ever returned to me. He never did. Now I leave it to you. Perhaps it will help you in the future.

  Do not die too soon.

  I will see you soon my Son ”

  Beside the letter lay a small, old watch.

  Samye picked it up carefully.

  It was warm.

  He didn’t know why—but as he held it, a strange feeling passed through him, like time itself had paused to watch him.

  Outside, the world remained cruel and unchanged.

  Inside that small room, Samye stood alone again—

  but this time, he carried something more than grief.

  He carried a legacy.