July's winds had grown cooler, like someone whispering soft apologies after a storm.
It was still early when the scooters started their 20 km journey from Nandanpur to Devgarh. The sky was pink-grey, birds barely awake, but the four scooters buzzed through the misty road like they carried something important — and they did.
A dream. A fire. A ripple of change.
At exactly 5:10 a.m., eight sleepy children — some with socks that didn't match and hair still damp from washing — tied their bags and tiffins tight, strapped on helmets, and rode off. Raghav yawned at every bump, Vaidehi scribbled notes on her knee, Vivaan almost forgot his school ID again, and Aariv was already arguing with the radio's static.
Ishanvi rode ahead like a compass. Abhay kept pace just behind her, silent as always, but alert to every twist in the road.
They reached Devgarh School Gate just before 5:50 a.m. — the new scholarship prep classes started at 6 a.m. sharp.
The Quiet Before the Bell
They sat in the quiet class, steam from their breaths curling in the cold air. These were the elite classes — only selected students. Ishanvi and Abhay were the only ones from their village in Class 12, and the juniors too — Vaidehi, Raghav, and Aariv — had to earn their spot.
The morning lesson started with complex reasoning questions. Abhay solved three quietly before anyone else had done one. Ishanvi cracked a pattern even the teacher missed. Raghav whispered to Aariv, "It's like she's glowing again."
No one noticed the faint warmth under Ishanvi's palm.
Lunchtime Bruises
Lunchtime was on the back stairs, under the neem tree. As usual, the town kids gathered on the benches and steps, tossing wrappers and laughing a little too loud.
When Ishanvi handed her little sister half a poha pack wrapped in cloth, a sneering voice called out, "What's for lunch, Village Queen? Mud curry?"
It was Namit, a senior known for his sharp tongue. He was flanked by Rehan and Simran, who burst into laughter.
Raghav clenched his fists. Vaidehi bit her lip. Aariv muttered, "Let it go."
But then Abhay stood, eyes cold. "We brought enough food. Want to share?"
Namit blinked.
"Yeah," Rehan mocked. "Don't need pity chapatis, thanks."
"Not pity," Abhay replied. "Just manners."
Something in his voice made even Simran fall quiet.
And then… unexpectedly… Simran walked over.
She squatted near Vaidehi and pulled out a small foil-wrapped roll from her own bag. "You fixed that pen for me last week," she mumbled, placing it near her.
Vaidehi blinked. "I… didn't think you noticed."
Simran didn't meet her eyes. "Whatever."
Raghav whispered to Ishanvi, "Did we just… get mercy-fed?"
"No," she said quietly. "We got seen."
A Soft Fire, A Ripple Stirring
After lunch, they sat on the back field — the grass wet, the clouds folding into each other. Vivaan lay on his backpack, making cloud shapes. Meera scratched equations into the dirt with a stick. Aariv recited weird trivia no one asked for.
And Abhay, beside Ishanvi, fumbled with something he'd been meaning to say all day.
"Hey," he said, voice awkward, "So that quiz tomorrow… if you want, I can explain— I mean if you—uh, if you want to—"
"You're stuttering," she said, amused.
"I— I know," he groaned, hands over his face.
"Firefly effect," Raghav teased from the grass. "You glitch when she's around."
Abhay flushed red. Even Ishanvi smirked, brushing dust from her kurta. "Don't worry," she said, eyes kind. "You don't need to talk perfect. You just need to talk."
And then, as if on cue, their scooter alarms beeped — a reminder for their 2:45 p.m. study break.
Evening Whispers
They rode back home in a slow line of four scooters, weaving through puddles and swaying trees.
When they reached the fork before Nandanpur, an old man standing by the broken milestone waved them down.
"Storm's shifting again," he warned. "Be careful on the bridge. The river doesn't always listen."
Ishanvi looked toward the horizon — the sky rippling like it was breathing. Her palm felt warm again.
Abhay, beside her, said softly, "We'll be fine."
She turned to him. "You sure?"
He hesitated — then nodded, this time without stuttering. "Yeah. If you lead… I'll follow."
And so they rode home — eight helmets, four scooters, half-dreams, half-worries, and one whisper of something old stirring under the monsoon.