Location: Ashtashram, Sector 9Date: September 25, 2029Time: 6:02 AM
They ran out of food on the third morning.
Even the old biscuit packets were gone.Khushi held her stomach, too polite to ask for more.
Yash stared at the steel bowl in front of him — a mix of rice crumbs, dried chilies, and a half-burnt chapati.
Not even enough for one.
Before the fall, Yash didn't know how to cook.
He didn't know much of anything except debt, despair, and court hearings.
Now nineteen people sat in the corner of a broken hall…waiting for him.
Not because he was the strongest.
But because he was the only one who kept standing.
He walked outside, alone.
The ash followed him, trailing lightly behind his boots.
There were ruins nearby — old kitchens, street stalls, crashed delivery vans.
He scavenged quietly, cautiously.
Some rats.Some rusted cans.A bag of flour — wet at one end, but still usable.
He returned by noon, coughing from dust.
The others watched him place the bag down.
They didn't cheer.
They just hoped.
He lit a fire using broken furniture.Tore off the soaked parts of the flour bag.Boiled water in a rusted steel pot.
He kneaded the dough.
The ash on his skin… it glowed faintly again.
Every motion he made felt heavier.
Not with magic — with purpose.
By sunset, the smell of burnt roti filled the room.
It wasn't good food.It wasn't even clean food.
But it was warm.
And for most of them — it was the first warm thing they'd had in weeks.
Khushi took a bite and smiled.
One of the kids cried while eating.
The nurse touched her own pulse to make sure she was still alive.
Yash… sat alone near the wall, eating last.
No one said thank you.
No one needed to.
Because that night, no one went hungry.
And in a world like this — that was enough.
Later, Khushi handed him another drawing.
This one was different.
It showed a man with white hair, holding a frying pan like a sword.
Underneath, in her shaky handwriting:
Ash-Bearer Chef
Yash stared at it.
Then laughed.
For the first time since his parents died.