The village had always belonged to the moon. Not in the way maps belonged to countries, or houses belonged to families. The moon owned it in silence.
Every night it poured silver across the hills and rooftops, turning broken fences into works of art and forgotten paths into ribbons of light.
When Devendra returned after fifteen years, nothing seemed different. The old banyan tree still leaned toward the river. The wind still carried the scent of jasmine. And the moon still waited.
He stood at the edge of the village road, holding a worn leather bag. Somewhere beyond those hills was a promise he had failed to keep.
A promise made beneath moonlight. A promise to a girl named Meera.
The night felt strangely alive, as though the village itself remembered something he had tried very hard to forget.