Vipin wakes before the cold reaches his face.
The body does it first now. Not with panic, not with the sharp jolt that used to pull him out of sleep in the early months, but with a quieter insistence—stiffness in the knees, a tightness along the lower back, the sense that lying still has stopped helping. He stays where he is for a moment, eyes open in the dark, listening to the house breathe. Someone turns in their sleep. A faraway cough breaks and then settles again. The hunger is there, familiar, no longer clawing. It waits.
When he sits up, the blanket slides off his legs more easily than it used to. The cloth of his kurta bunches higher at the wrists; the hem no longer reaches quite where it did last year. Nothing about him feels strong, but less of him feels breakable. The thought doesn't complete itself. He swings his feet down and lets them find the floor.
The stone is colder than he expects. It bites through the skin and stays. He dresses without lighting the lamp, hands moving by memory now, fumbling once with the buttons and then slowing until the noise disappears. There is no reason to hurry. There is also no reason to wait.
The house at this hour is not asleep. It is holding itself together. Sounds behave differently—small movements travel farther, the creak of wood feels exposed. Vipin steps carefully, placing his weight the way Tauji does in the fields, heel and toe together. He passes the inner rooms without looking in. The courtyard opens up ahead of him, a darker square against darker walls.
The gate waits where it always has.
Up close, it looks larger than it does during the day. Thicker. The iron fittings hold the night in them; even before he touches them, they seem to radiate cold. Vipin stops an arm's length away. He has stood here many mornings, waiting while Tauji worked the latch, watching the way the wood moved once it decided to move. He has never done it himself.
He reaches out and grips the iron bar with both hands. The cold snaps into his palms immediately. He pulls.
Nothing happens.
The gate doesn't even pretend to respond. It stays where it is, unmoved, as if the effort never arrived. Vipin loosens his grip and flexes his fingers, breath fogging faintly in front of his face. For a moment, he waits—listening, half-expecting a voice behind him, a question, a correction. The courtyard stays quiet.
He tries again, this time setting his feet wider, leaning back with his weight. The wood creaks once, barely, then settles. The sound feels louder than it should in the stillness. He pauses, heart beating faster now, not from fear but from the work already done.
The third attempt is slower. He turns sideways, presses his shoulder into the gate where Tauji's shoulder usually goes, braces one foot behind the other. He times the push with his breath the way he has learned to time carrying loads—inhale, set, exhale into effort.
The gate shifts. Not much. Enough.
The movement surprises him and he nearly overbalances, catching himself with a sharp intake of breath. He adjusts, pushes again, inch by inch, until the opening is just wide enough for a thin body to slip through. He turns sideways and squeezes out into the lane, the cold air outside cutting sharper across his face.
Closing it takes as much work as opening it. The wood drags reluctantly back into place, the latch resisting his fingers before finally catching with a dull sound that echoes once and then disappears. Vipin stands there for a second longer than necessary, palm still resting against the grain, feeling the vibration settle out of it.
Nothing else happens.
The village at this hour feels unfinished. Darkness clings to the edges of things, leaving shapes without detail. The smell of damp earth travels farther, sharper, mixed with something sour from the cattle sheds. Vipin steps away from the gate and into the lane, breath clouding now with each exhale.
The dogs see him before they speak. He senses them in the way he has learned to sense adults—by the change in the space around him. A shape shifts near a doorway. Another lifts its head from the ground. Tails stay low. No one barks yet.
Vipin slows without stopping. He keeps his eyes forward, shoulders loose, arms hanging where they can be seen. His steps shorten, rhythm steady. The dogs watch, weighing him. One takes a few steps closer, nose low, then pauses. Vipin doesn't run. He doesn't challenge. He walks past, the distance between them widening slowly until the attention loosens and falls away.
The lane opens toward the fields, the houses thinning out. Vipin stops where the packed earth gives way to something softer underfoot. He stands there, hands tucked into his sleeves, breath coming evenly now despite the cold. The ache in his legs announces itself clearly. The work with the gate sits in his shoulders, a dull reminder that doesn't ask to be solved.
He doesn't stretch. He doesn't move forward yet. He stays where he is and lets the cold do its work, sinking into the joints, making itself known. The sky lightens almost imperceptibly, the darkness thinning rather than lifting. Somewhere behind him, a door creaks open and closes again. Life beginning, slowly, without notice.