The rains hadn't stopped in days.
By the time the third week of July rolled around, the sky had turned a permanent shade of grey. The river near Nandanpur, once calm and humming with frogs and dragonflies, now growled as it swelled, muddy and fast. The villagers grew anxious, and every morning, Sunita would glance toward the banks before letting her children leave.
That morning, as usual, the eight of them woke before sunrise. The kitchen in Ishanvi's house smelled of jaggery and rice — Sunita was quietly folding some roti rolls for the tiffins. Rajesh came in, water dripping from his umbrella.
"It's worse today," he muttered. "The river's touched the big peepal tree."
Sunita nodded. "Let them go today. From tomorrow, we'll see."
Across the lane, Neha was checking the fuel level of Abhay's scooter while Vikram packed an extra raincoat in Aariv's bag.
"You kids ride slow. Don't follow the shortcut near the canal," Neha warned, adjusting Meera's scarf.
"We'll stick to the main road, Ma," Abhay promised. "I'll keep an eye on everyone."
They left with a smile and the usual honk competition, their scooters splashing through puddles as Devgarh's direction called. The sky spat drizzle, but spirits were still high.
After school and extra classes, as they returned home through the forested path by the river, the current had become wild. The older kids rode ahead, and Vivaan — distracted, chasing his flapping raincoat — got too close to the edge.
A scream tore the air.
"Vivaan!" Vrinda shrieked.
In the next heartbeat, Vivaan slipped, and the rushing brown water swallowed him like a shadow.
Ishanvi let out a choked gasp, her hands frozen on the handlebars.
Before anyone could react, Abhay dropped his bag and leapt in.
It wasn't thinking — it was instinct.
The others screamed, helpless, as Abhay disappeared into the water. Seconds passed. Then a minute.
Then—he emerged, gasping, with Vivaan clutched to his chest. One arm paddled fiercely while the other held his head above water. Somehow, the river's push didn't toss him — it parted, ever so slightly, as if repelled by something.
By the time he pulled Vivaan to the embankment, soaked and shivering, everyone had run to meet them.
"I'm fine, I'm fine," Vivaan stammered through tears.
Abhay sat beside him, trembling. Ishanvi dropped to her knees beside him.
"You—how—" she began, her hands hovering over him.
"I just jumped," Abhay said, coughing. "Didn't think. Just—"
But his voice cracked.
Ishanvi wrapped her arms around him, tightly. "You didn't have to—"
"Yes, I did," he said softly. "I told your father I'd keep you all safe."
That evening, back home, the parents were pale and shaken. Sunita hugged Vivaan so tight she couldn't breathe.
"You could've died," Sunita said, cupping Abhay's cheeks.
Neha and Vikram sat silently, Abhay's wet school uniform spread by the fire.
"I don't know how you swam like that," Vikram murmured. "That current was deadly."
Abhay said nothing. His eyes found Ishanvi's across the room — and for a second, they both thought the same thing.
That wasn't just swimming.
Later that night, the house was quiet. Rain pattered on the tiled roofs, softer now. In the dim glow of the lantern, Rajesh placed a hand on Ishanvi's shoulder.
"You're growing up too fast," he said.
Ishanvi looked up. "We'll be fine, Baba."
"I know," he smiled faintly. "But even fireflies need rest sometimes."
In the other house, Vikram brought warm turmeric milk to Abhay.
"You did good today, beta," he said. "But… stay careful."
Abhay nodded. His fingers were still wrinkled from the water. But when he closed his eyes, he could still feel the river pulling—and then bending.
Like it knew him.