He tried to ignore her. He failed.

“Gifted,” said the rare visitor who saw.

And for the first time, he did. He called a flame—small, trembling, no bigger than a marigold. It hovered between them, golden and shy. Isha reached out. He expected her to pull back from the heat. Instead, she smiled.

“You,” she said, pointing at him over a stack of takeout containers, “look like someone who’s been asleep for ten years. Wake up.”

Shiva stared at his own hands. The heat was no longer a shame. It was a destiny.