It had been more than two months. Abhivart couldn’t tell how long anymore. Every day looked the same. He woke up sore, hungry, and scared. He slept because his body shut down, not because he felt safe.

He moved like a ghost of himself now. That wild-hearted boy who once used to trace patterns in the mud with a stick and ask if the clouds could speak, was buried beneath bruises and silence. His arms hung too thin at his sides, skin stretched tight over bone, and his eyes… they’d gone dull, like ash after the fire has gone out. He moved like a ghost of himself now. That wild-hearted boy—the boy who once used to trace patterns in the mud with a stick and ask if the clouds could speak—was buried beneath bruises and silence.