The warm afternoon sun cast long shadows as the eight of them returned to Nandanpur, dusty, a little tired, but still laughing. The scent of neem trees mixed with the earthy aroma of cow dung cakes drying on mud walls — the smell of home.
The four scooters rolled to a halt in front of two adjacent houses. One had a small tulsi plant at the entrance and bright marigold garlands drying on a string. The other had two old charpais propped against the outer wall and a water pot cooling in the shade.
"Race over," Abhay announced, hopping off his scooter and stretching dramatically.
"Only because you cheated and took the shorter turn past the sugarcane field," Ishanvi argued, tugging her scarf loose and ruffling Raghav's hair as he passed.
"Admit it, Firefly," he grinned, walking backward toward his gate, "I'm faster on both wheels and wit."
"You forgot your grammar homework again, Bhaiya," Vaidehi chimed in sweetly as she walked past him. "Fast in 'speed,' not in 'wit.'"
Raghav burst out laughing. "Oof, roasted by your own sister!"
"Bhaiya deserves it," Aariv added calmly, "for making us all repeat chemical formulas out loud for 10 kilometers."
Inside the courtyard, Sunita Kumar, 42, already had a steel plate in hand, setting dried papads aside while eyeing the dust-covered trio walking in.
"Shoes off, bags inside, and don't you bring that forest dust into my kitchen," she called, her tone stern but her eyes soft. "Ishanvi, drink water first."
"Yes, Amma," Ishanvi smiled, stepping in to help.
Rajesh Kumar, 45, a tall man with cracked hands and a tan from years in the sun, walked in from the back field, wiping sweat with a towel.
"You're late," he said without anger. "Bridge was busy?"
"More like the goats were," Raghav grumbled, pulling off his shoes.
Meanwhile, across the lane, Neha Sharma, 44, dressed in a pale green sari with her clinic bag still slung over one shoulder, stepped out to greet her children.
"Aariv, did you finish that essay for your social class?"
"No, Ma," he said, sheepishly. "But I helped Meera fix her project."
"Hmm." She arched a brow but let it slide.
Inside, Vikram Sharma, 47, sat at a small wooden table grading papers. He taught in a school two villages over and returned only on weekends, but today was a school holiday.
"Abhay," he called without looking up. "Your drawing lines were uneven in last week's blueprint sketch."
Abhay raised an eyebrow. "You're still grading that?"
"Good architecture is never rushed," Vikram replied with a knowing smile.
The two homes shared a boundary wall, but more than that — they shared evening laughter, borrowed spices, old newspapers, and sometimes even sorrow.
That evening, as the sun dipped behind the western fields, the families gathered under the neem tree in front of their homes. It was a usual ritual — a time to breathe, to joke, and to dream.
Meera and Vivaan were playing hopscotch drawn in chalk on the mud. Aariv was trying to write with his left hand just for fun, and Vrinda sat nearby sketching a leaf.
"Vaidehi Didi," Vivaan called, hopping in place, "when you become an environmentalist, will you ban school?"
"Only the boring parts," she replied, tousling his hair.
"Like your speeches," Raghav whispered loudly, earning a nudge from Vaidehi.
"Abhay Bhaiya," Meera said thoughtfully, "what if you fall in love with someone who wants to build roads, not bridges?"
"I'll build a bridge to their heart," Abhay said dramatically, placing a hand on his chest.
"Cheesy," Aariv muttered.
"Romantic," Ishanvi said under her breath, barely audible — but Abhay caught it.
"Did you say something, Firefly?" he teased.
"Just that you're delusional," she snapped back quickly, her ears turning pink.
The parents smiled quietly, watching the banter unfold — the way Ishanvi always seemed to shine just a little more when she laughed, or how Abhay's gaze lingered a little too long whenever she spoke.
After dinner — a simple meal of rice, dal, and brinjal fry — everyone sat outside, enjoying the breeze. Someone had lit a mosquito coil, and the dull spiral glowed orange near the door.
Suddenly, the electricity flickered out. Another power cut.
"It's like the forest swallowed the village," Meera whispered, eyes wide.
"Not again," Vrinda muttered. "I hate the dark."
"I'll get a lantern," Ishanvi said, already halfway inside.
"No need," Abhay said, clicking on his tiny solar torch and holding it up. "Look, I brought my magic light."
"More like firefly light," Aariv added with a smirk.
Something in that moment — the quiet hum of the village, the hush of the wind, the flicker of that torchlight — felt unusually still.
Ishanvi paused near the tulsi plant, looking at the flame of the diya Sunita had lit earlier. The flame didn't sway in the wind. Instead, it grew taller.
She blinked.
It returned to normal.
She shook her head and walked back.
"Storm coming," Rajesh muttered, looking at the sky.
"Could be," Vikram agreed. "Chandravan gets tricky in the rains."
The children didn't notice the shared glance between the parents. Nor did they see Neha press her hand into Vikram's quietly, or how Sunita and Rajesh looked toward the distant temple ruins for just a moment too long.
But the wind did pick up that night. And deep inside Chandravan, something stirred.