The school bell rang sharply, cutting through the cold winter air.
Students hurried into classrooms, sweaters pulled tight, admit cards clutched in nervous hands. For most, it was just another exam season.
For Abhay and Ishanvi, it felt like standing in an exam hall with their world already shattered.
Ishanvi sat at her desk, staring at the question paper without really seeing it.
Dates. Formulas. Definitions.
Everything blurred.
Her fingers trembled slightly — not from cold alone, but from the ache sitting deep in her chest. The warmth she usually felt inside was faint… almost extinguished.
Focus. Please focus, she begged herself.
Two rows away, Abhay clenched his jaw, eyes fixed on the paper. His pen hovered mid-air. The calm flow he once felt — like water moving effortlessly — was disturbed, restless.
His thoughts drifted back to the river.
To unanswered questions.
To parents who never came back.
Outside the classroom, the water tank near the science block stood unnaturally still.
No ripples.
No movement.
Abhay felt it — the absence.
Why does everything feel… empty?
Ishanvi pressed her palm against the desk. Usually, warmth spread unconsciously.
Today?
Nothing.
Even their powers were grieving.
Raghav sat stiffly, eyes red but dry. He had cried enough at night. During the day, guilt replaced tears.
If only I hadn't snapped…
Meera, sitting beside Vrinda, stared blankly at the paper. Words danced but made no sense. She kept glancing at the door, as if expecting someone to walk in and say this was all a mistake.
Vaidehi whispered softly before the invigilator entered,
"Meera… just write what you know."
Meera nodded — but her hands shook.
For a brief moment, Abhay looked up.
His eyes met Ishanvi's.
No words.
No smiles.
Just shared understanding.
Survive this.
Together.
That single glance steadied them more than any reassurance.
Pens finally began to move.
Slowly. Carefully.
Not perfectly — but honestly.
Each answer written felt like resistance against collapse. Against grief. Against fear of the future.
The cold wind rattled the windows. The clock ticked loudly.
Time moved forward — whether they were ready or not.
When the bell rang, no one rushed out.
Chairs scraped softly. Papers were submitted in silence.
Outside, winter sunlight fell weakly on the courtyard.
Vivaan muttered, "That was… bad."
Abhay exhaled slowly. "It was… something."
Ishanvi wrapped her shawl tighter. "We showed up. That counts."
And for the first time since the tragedy, showing up felt like an achievement.
The half-yearlies weren't just exams.
They were proof that despite loss, fear, and unanswered questions —
life was still moving forward.
Even if their hearts — and their powers — weren't ready yet.