The next morning was golden.
Not metaphorically — the sun was really that color. Warm, golden, stretching through the old windows and slipping onto the kitchen tiles like a promise. The city hadn't fully recovered from the gas leak scare, but for us, in that little house on the corner of 3rd Cross Road, life tried to hum again.
Mom had made rava upma. The kind I used to groan about. This time, I finished it before anyone else.
Karthik had color in his face again. His cough was less angry. His first words were, "Did Anna really carry me home?"
Mom smiled without looking up. "He did. Just like in those action movies you two used to act out with toy guns."
I smiled too, but something inside tightened.
Because I knew what was coming.
That morning, I had slipped into Dad's work bag.
Not something I'd ever dared to do before.
But this time, I needed to see it. The letter. The one from corporate. The one that would, tomorrow, make him lose his job if he responded the same way again.
In the old timeline, he had walked into a manager's office, angry, proud, speaking the truth about missing safety valves and underpaid contractors. The truth cost him.
He wasn't wrong.
Just… loud. At the wrong time.
At 10:15 AM sharp, he picked up his bag and left for the bus stop.
I followed ten minutes later.
I stayed across the road, hiding behind an electric pole, pretending to fiddle with my shoelace. I watched him sit on the bench, stare at the traffic like he always did, shoulders slumped slightly under the weight of being the one who must provide.
I crossed the road.
"Appa," I said.
He looked up, surprised. "What are you doing here?"
"I was… walking. Just wanted to say something."
He blinked. "Okay."
I sat beside him, heart drumming. "I read the letter in your bag. The one about the valve issue."
His jaw tightened. "That's not for you to worry about."
"But I do. Because last time—"
I stopped. Caught myself.
"Last time I ignored things like this, we paid for it. All of us."
He was quiet.
I continued, "Maybe instead of fighting it alone, you could take notes. Collect proof. Go higher up. Not scream in a room full of people who've already made up their minds."
He looked at me sideways, the crease in his brow deepening. "Who told you I screamed?"
"No one. But I know you. And I know how much you hate injustice. And how sometimes… that turns into anger."
We sat in silence for a moment.
Then, quietly, he asked, "Did I scare you… that day?"
I didn't answer.
He nodded slowly. "I'll do better. Not because I'm scared of losing the job. But because I've got more to protect than pride."
The bus came.
He stood up, adjusted his bag, and before stepping in, turned back and said, "You're growing too fast, da."
I smiled. "Maybe I'm just finally catching up."
That evening, mom made tea. Karthik played carrom with me. The power went out for twenty minutes and we lit candles. The three of us sat on the floor, bathed in orange light and laughter that had been absent for too long.
And somewhere in the middle of it, I realized something.
Normal isn't boring.
Normal is a miracle we overlook.
And for the first time in years, normal had come back home.