My friendship with Ishaan deepened as we grew older, even as the world kept us separate by invisible lines. Once, after an afternoon of climbing trees by the river, he returned to my house as dusk fell, out of breath.
"Your father's pottery is prized beyond our village now," he said, picking up a large urn. But as he did, it slipped from his hands, landing with a crack on the packed earth. Both of us froze.
The pot shattered into fragments. A hush fell. Ishaan's face drained of color. I knew what this would mean: my father's earnings lost for the week.
I couldn't let that happen. I took the pieces and ran inside to our little shed. In the dark, I arranged them on the ground and whispered, "May this pot be whole again."
Then I waited.
Morning came, and light spilled through the door. I opened it. There, where broken shards had been, stood a perfect urn — my father's finest work, as if never broken.
When Father saw it on the table, he rubbed his hands in gratitude, calling me "blessed by the gods." I only nodded, stroking the cool clay.
All day, I watched Ishaan quietly. He seemed relieved, but puzzled. He hadn't known of my secret wish. I simply smiled and said nothing. Inside, however, I was amazed. If my will could rebuild what had been lost, then even larger destructions might someday be undone. But a child must be careful even of his own desires.
That night, I lay awake wondering: if truth can mend clay, should I try to change the past as well? The question was heavy and unfamiliar, like the weight of that repaired pot in my hands. For now, I made no further wish. Some things — I told myself under the silent stars — must grow slowly, like the clay itself before the artist sets it free.
And so the years of childhood and discovery continued, with each day weaving new threads of destiny under the watchful skies...