Echoes of Light

Warm sunlight. The slow hum of a ceiling fan. The faint smell of freshly washed clothes drying somewhere nearby.

I blinked.

I was small again.

Sitting on the veranda steps of our old house.

My legs didn't even reach the ground properly. Dust clung to my feet. And beside me —

Appa.

He folded a newspaper the way he always did, neat and precise, like even paper deserved discipline.

"Appa," I asked, my voice smaller than I remembered, "why do you go to work every day?"

He looked at me and smiled. Not a big smile. Just the kind that made everything feel okay.

"To build things that last, Rishi," he said. Then, after a pause, "But more importantly… to make sure you get to build your own."

I frowned, staring at my hands.

"They're small," I said. "I can't build anything."

"You'll grow."

His hand brushed the dust off my shirt, gentle and careful.

"And when you do… don't chase what others have. Understand what you can create."

I didn't fully understand.

But I nodded anyway.

He leaned back slightly, looking ahead at nothing in particular.

"You'll fall sometimes," he continued. "Everyone does."

Then he looked at me again.

"But when you do… take a breath, stand up, and start again."

I swallowed.

"Promise?"

His voice softened, almost like it was coming from far away now.

"Rishi… promise me one more thing."

The light around him seemed to blur.

"Even if the world knocks you down…"

His face faded slightly at the edges.

"…never stay down."

"RISHI! WAKE UP!"

My eyes snapped open.

Sameer's face was inches from mine.

Too close.

Way too close.

"WHAT — why is your face like that!?" I jerked back instinctively.

Sameer jumped too, almost hitting his head. "Dude! I thought you were dead!"

"I was unconscious, not dead!"

"I was about to do CPR!"

Before I could respond, a nurse's voice cut in, dry as ever.

"Oh. Should I come back later?"

We both froze.

Sameer stepped back so fast he nearly tripped over the stool. "No! No, it's not like that! He fainted! I was just—checking—breathing—"

She gave him a long, unimpressed look.

"Sure you were."

I couldn't help it. A tired grin slipped out. "So… you were really going to kiss me back to life?"

Sameer dragged his hand down his face. "Bro, please. Don't make this worse."

The doctor adjusted his glasses, flipping through my chart.

"Nothing serious," he said. "You likely collapsed due to exhaustion. Maybe lack of sleep or food. Your vitals are fine."

Sameer let out a loud breath. "See? I told you. You weren't dying."

I glanced at him. "You almost kissed me in panic."

The doctor paused mid-writing. "I'm sorry — what?"

"Nothing!" Sameer said quickly. "Inside joke."

"Good," the doctor muttered. "Keep it that way."

As we stepped out into the corridor, the noise hit immediately.

Stretchers rolled past. Nurses rushed between wards. People filled every available space — benches, floors, corners.

Some sat silently. Some argued with staff. Some just… waited.

A woman rocked a sleeping child in her arms, whispering something under her breath. An old man leaned against a wall, an oxygen tube looping from a dented cylinder beside him.

The air smelled sharp — antiseptic mixed with sweat.

I stood there for a second longer than I should have.

Taking it in.

My grip tightened slightly around my bag strap.

I was walking out.

A lot of them weren't.

By the time we reached the bus stop, the sun had dipped just enough to turn everything golden.

Sameer checked his phone. "You sure you're okay? We can skip the rest of the day."

"I'm fine," I said. But my mind wasn't on the bus. It was on the numbers.

₹130.

I had seen it. Before the crash. Before the news. Before anyone knew.

Sameer nudged me. "You're spacing out again. Seriously, what happened in that lab?"

I almost told him. The words were right there — I saw the future, Sameer. I saw Tasha fall before it fell.

But I swallowed them.

He studied my face for a moment longer than usual. Then shrugged. "Your funeral. But if you die again, I'm not doing CPR. That nurse already thinks we're dating."

The bus arrived, groaning to a stop. We climbed on, wedging ourselves between a man with two steel buckets and a woman arguing loudly into her phone.

I dropped onto the couch the moment I got home, not even bothering with my shoes.

The TV flickered on.

Voices. News. Noise.

My mind wasn't there. It kept going back to that glow. Those numbers. That voice.

Then my phone buzzed.

Her voice was calm, but there was concern underneath.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better," I said, staring at the TV.

"Make sure you rest. Don't stress yourself too much. We can catch up on the assignment later."

"Okay, ma'am."

As she spoke, the volume of the TV seemed to rise on its own.

"Breaking news — shares of Tasha Motors plunged sharply today following unexpected financial stress."

My eyes snapped to the screen.

A red graph.

Falling.

Fast.

Numbers scrolled across the bottom.

₹800… ₹620… ₹410…

₹130.

I froze.

Not similar. Not close.

The exact same numbers.

A faint glow shimmered across the screen.

Soft.

Pulsing.

Familiar.

"Rishi?" Professor Anu's voice came through the phone. "Are you still there?"

"I — yeah," I managed. "Thanks for calling, ma'am. I'll rest."

I hung up before she could respond.

My phone slipped from my hand, hitting the couch cushion with a dull thud.

The TV kept looping the same footage. Tasha Motors. The crash. The red line diving down.

I sat there, staring at the screen.

₹130.

I had seen it before it happened.

A chill ran down my spine.

This wasn't a coincidence.