The boy had fallen asleep.
Head resting on Mihir's lap, clutching the small fan Mihir had given him earlier that day. A tiger drawn on one side. A poem on the other.
The garden was quiet again. Plum blossoms drifted down like snowfall.
Mihir didn't dare move. He sat still, hand resting gently on the boy's hair.
That's when he heard the footsteps.Careful. Heavy. Familiar.
Zhang Zheng.
He stood a few steps away, watching.
There was a strange look in his eyes. Like he'd walked into a memory he wasn't ready to feel.
"You found him," Zhang said quietly.
"He found me," Mihir replied. "He gave me a bird."
Zhang looked away.
Silence.
Mihir waited.
Zhang stepped forward. Kneeling, slowly. His hand reached out, trembling. He touched his son's hair.
Mihir looked at him.
There it was — the crack in his armor.
Mihir didn't speak. He only reached out — gently — and placed a hand over Zhang's.
Zhang didn't pull away.
They sat like that. A warrior, a scholar, and a sleeping boy under the moonlight.
The next morning.
Mihir packed his things in silence. He had to go. His teacher's words still echoed in his head:"A journey is not a resting place."
The family gathered outside the manor to see him off.
Zhang stood with arms crossed, saying nothing.
The stepmother looked almost amused.
The father remained inside, unseen as always.
Mihir stepped through the gate.
A strong wind rose.
And suddenly — CRACK — a great tree near the path splintered and fell across the road, shaking the ground.
The birds scattered. The horses neighed.
Everyone froze.
One of the older priests gasped and whispered, "An omen... this is a bad sign..."
"It's the Wind Spirit," he declared. "He mustn't leave."
Mihir stared at the tree.
"Coincidence," he muttered.
The priest crossed his arms. "The heavens speak in rustling leaves and falling trees. This is no accident."
The second son had always been quiet.
Never by choice.
Silence had been trained into him — through the cold glances of maids, the cruel mutters of wives, the disappointment in his grandfather's eyes. But now, he stood beneath the grey sky, thin fingers curled into fists, his small lips trembling.
That's when he heard a voice.
Small. Shaky. From behind.
"Stay..."
Mihir turned.
It was the second son.
He had stepped forward. Alone. Face pale but eyes fierce.
"Stay here," he said again, clearer this time.
Gasps.
Zhang blinked. Mihir did too.
Even the stepmother raised a brow.
Zhang stepped forward, gently placing a hand on his son's shoulder.
"He's never spoken like that before."
Mihir was frozen.
He turned slowly — startled, sure he'd misheard.
But the boy was there, standing just ahead of Zhang Zheng, away from the protective arms of the servants. His tiny face scrunched in defiance.
"Stay here," he said again, louder.
The wind stopped. Even the sky seemed to hold its breath.
The elder priest gasped, clutching his wooden staff. "The gods speak through the mouths of children! A voice born from silence is a message from heaven!"
Mihir's heart pounded.
Zhang took a step forward — stunned, as if his breath had been stolen. He dropped to his knees, arms wide. The boy rushed to him, crashing into his chest, clinging like the wind itself had told him it was safe now.
Zhang trembled. His hands shook as they wrapped around his son. His voice was raw.
"You spoke... for him...?"
The boy nodded against his chest. "I like him."
Mihir felt something deep inside him unravel.Slow. Gentle. Like a tightly wound scroll finally being read.
The fallen tree still lay across the path — broken by wind, split by what some called fate. The horses wouldn't cross. The servants refused to step near.
"He should stay," whispered one of the concubines, surprisingly soft. "It's not every day the house hears joy again."
Even the stepmother, sharp eyes always unreadable, hummed behind his folding fan. "Well... it seems the house has made its choice."
Mihir looked around — the faces of people he barely knew. Zhang holding his son. The priest repeating mantras about bad omens and divine timings. The smell of the coming rain.
Mihir looked up — at the sky, at the family, at Zhang.
And he sighed.
"Then," he said softly, "I'll stay.For a while."
And he smiled faintly.
Zhang looked up — eyes rimmed with the storm of emotions he never let fall.
"Thank you."
But Mihir turned toward the boy instead and crouched down.
"You're very brave," he said softly.
The boy nodded. "Will you sleep here tonight?"
Mihir laughed.
"Yes. And I expect a drawing from you tomorrow."