The rains had ended, leaving the world washed clean.The earth smelled of new life, and the river Shokma flowed clearer than ever, its surface rippling like polished glass. The little shelter that Rama and Yuna called home stood quiet among the tamarind trees, its patched roof whispering under the soft wind.
It had been many days since the River's Revenge. The bruises of that day had faded, but the memory still lingered in Yuna's mind — the cold water, Nancy's trembling face, and the moment she realized that kindness could heal wounds envy could not.
Nancy had changed since then. She came often to help Rama repair the shelter, her hands learning the rhythm of humility. She brought rice, small herbs, and once, even a ribbon she had made for Yuna's hair.
Each time she visited, her voice carried a little less pride and a little more softness.
"I've been foolish," she said one afternoon, kneeling beside Yuna as they sorted dried beans. "You had every reason to hate me."
Yuna smiled faintly, her eyes gentle as always. "I don't hate you. The river took that from me."
Nancy bowed her head. "Then may it take what's left of my pride, too."
From the doorway, Rama watched in silence. She could see the truth of repentance in Nancy's face — the way her shoulders no longer lifted in vanity, the way her laughter, once sharp, now held warmth. It reminded her of something she had long forgotten: that even hearts turned dark by jealousy could find their way back to the light.
That evening, the sky bruised itself into twilight. Rama stepped outside to gather firewood when she heard footsteps — steady, heavy, familiar.
At first she thought her memory was playing cruel tricks. But then she saw him.
Rick.
He stood at the edge of the clearing, his clothes dusty, his face older, marked by exhaustion. The firelight flickered against his eyes — the same eyes that once burned with anger, but now, only sadness lived there.
Rama froze. The bundle of wood slipped from her arms."You…" she whispered.
Rick took a slow step forward, his voice hoarse. "Rama. I didn't come to fight. I didn't come with men. I came… to ask forgiveness."
Yuna, hearing the voice, ran to her mother's side. Her breath caught when she saw him — the man who had dragged them from their home, the name she had learned to fear.
Rick lowered his gaze. "You don't owe me words. I deserve none. But please… let me speak."
Rama said nothing. She could feel her daughter trembling beside her. For a moment, the air between them was thick with years of pain. Then she nodded once.
"Speak."
Rick drew in a breath that seemed to tear through him."When I drove you out… I thought I was protecting my people. The Mumbai community said you were traitors. They lied to us, Rama. They lied to me. I believed them, and because of that, I destroyed a family that had done nothing wrong."
His voice broke. "I've lived with that weight every day since."
The crackle of the fire filled the silence that followed. Yuna's fingers found her mother's hand. Rama's eyes softened, though her heart still guarded itself behind years of pain.
"You speak of forgiveness," she said quietly. "But you took from us more than a house. You took our peace."
Rick bowed his head. "Then let me help you build it back."
For a long time, no one spoke. The wind rustled the trees, the river murmured in the distance — as if Shokma itself were listening.
Finally, Yuna stepped forward. "Mother," she said softly, "sometimes people break things by mistake. But if they come back to fix them, maybe it means they've changed."
Rama looked at her daughter, then at the man before her. There was truth in the girl's voice — the same truth that had saved Nancy.
Slowly, Rama said, "You may stay tonight. The road is no place to rest after sunset."
Rick's eyes glistened. "Thank you."
That night, as the fire burned low, Rama sat outside beneath the stars. Rick joined her, keeping a respectful distance.
For a while, neither spoke. The night hummed softly around them — crickets, the sighing trees, the far-off whisper of water.
Then Rick said quietly, "You haven't changed. You're still the strongest person I've ever known."
Rama's lips curved faintly. "Strength comes from what's left after everything else is taken."
He looked at her, eyes full of regret and something gentler — admiration, maybe even affection. "If I could turn back time, I'd have protected you instead of driving you away."
She met his gaze, and in that moment, the years of anger softened. The firelight painted gold across their faces, and the silence between them grew warm instead of cold.
"It's too late to change the past," Rama murmured, "but not too late to do good now."
Rick nodded, his voice thick. "Then let me begin."
The days that followed were unlike any they'd known before. Rick helped rebuild the shelter, his hands steady, his effort constant. He fetched water from Shokma, cut wood, repaired the door that had hung loose for months.
Nancy began visiting again, shyly helping where she could. She and Rick never spoke of their wrongs, but both carried the quiet of repentance that needed no words.
Sometimes, in the evenings, when Yuna laughed with the girls by the fire, Rama would find Rick watching her — not with guilt anymore, but with peace.
One night, as they stood by the river, Rama said softly, "The water forgave you."
Rick turned to her. "How do you know?"
"Because it let you come back," she replied.
Their eyes met — and for a breath, the world seemed to hold still. Not in passion, but in understanding. In that stillness was a promise: that even the most wounded hearts could find a way to beat again.
A week later, as dawn spilled gold across the hills, Yuna looked out at the river and saw Rick teaching Nancy how to fish. Rama was by the fire, humming a tune Yuna hadn't heard in years.
The world felt new. Not perfect — but mending.
And in the distance, the river shimmered, carrying the whispers of all that had been lost and all that had been forgiven.