The rains had returned with renewed force the next morning, and the thatched roofs of Nandanpur sang softly under the downpour. A heavy gray sky hung low over the village, and puddles filled every corner of the narrow lanes. It was still June, and the monsoon had only just begun to show its full strength.
Inside the small mud-brick house, Ishanvi wrapped an old shawl around Vivaan, who hadn't stopped coughing since the night before. Raghav sat quietly by the door, tying and retying the same shoelace, while Vrinda stood by the window, watching the rain with a strange stillness.
They had all gone to bed on empty stomachs again. No breakfast, no lunch, no dinner.
Their father, Rajesh, had tried to buy some rice from the local shopkeeper on credit, but the flood weeks ago had washed away the crops, and there was nothing left to sell. The shopkeeper had refused, gently but firmly.
Sunita, their mother, sat near the small stove, trying to light a fire with damp wood. Her hands trembled—not from weakness, but from the weight of helplessness.
Just then, a knock on the door echoed through the house.
Abhay stood there, water dripping from his shoulders, holding a large steel container covered in cloth. Behind him came Vaidehi, Aariv, and Meera, each balancing something—vegetables, milk, a packet of rice, some sweets leftover from the Sudarshini Utsav.
"Firefly," Abhay said softly, stepping inside without waiting for permission, "don't argue. We had extra."
Sunita tried to protest, but Ishanvi caught her hand and gave her a small, reassuring shake of the head.
"No one in this house is begging," Ishanvi said gently. "We're a family. We look after each other."
The two families cooked together that morning. Neha had even sent fresh chapatis, and Vikram had returned early from school just to bring salt and jaggery.
They laughed softly as they ate. Even a little rice with potatoes felt like a feast. Vivaan stopped coughing. Vrinda finally smiled. Raghav told one of his awful jokes, and Aariv added an even worse punchline.
Later that day, under the now-clearing sky, Abhay and Ishanvi sat outside on the charpai. Steam curled from their cups of herbal tea.
"Firefly," Abhay whispered, nodding toward the lantern hanging on the porch beam, "you've been glowing even without food. You'll shine brighter when things get better."
Ishanvi looked at him, her eyes tired but still bright. "Ripple, you've been calm even in this storm. How do you do it?"
He didn't reply. He just watched the rain dance on the ground as the wind swept past them.
Neither of them noticed how the lantern's flame flickered oddly when Ishanvi passed too close—or how the water droplets rolled unnaturally smooth down Abhay's arms and soaked everything except his clothes.
Subtle things.
Things no one could explain just yet.
Inside, the younger siblings cleaned up the kitchen area, trying not to break the fragile plates or the rare moment of peace. Vaidehi quietly packed leftover food into small containers "just in case," while Vrinda helped fold clothes.
They all knew the next day wouldn't be easier.
The scholarship exams were still months away, in December. The road ahead was still long. But for now, they had each other. And that was enough to hold on to.
For now.