It was still dark, just before sunrise, when Meera Rawat screamed into the morning, her pain sharp like thunder over the village.
But outside, the sky didn’t echo with noise. It held its breath.
Then—it began.
As Kartik Rawat took his first breath, something ancient stirred.
-
In a dense forest near Kedarnath, a meditating yogi opened his eyes after years of silence, his forehead drenched in sweat.
“A child... touched by time,” he whispered.
In Varanasi, the flames on the ghats flickered wildly, even as the air stood still. The priests stopped mid-chant, their eyes drawn to the Ganga’s surface, which shimmered unnaturally.
In a southern temple in Madurai, the murti of Goddess Meenakshi tilted slightly. No one saw it—but the bell above her shrine chimed on its own.
In Delhi’s royal court, a Mughal astrologer dropped his astrolabe, hands trembling.
“A soul has descended,” he muttered. “But not of our time…”
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In the Himalayas, the wind howled with a voice that sounded almost human. Birds rose from the valleys in a sudden flight, circling the village where Kartik was born—a village that would soon awaken to its forgotten legacy.
The midwife stepped back, eyes wide.
Kartik did not cry at first. He looked… calm.
In fact, his eyes opened—too early, too aware. He looked around, as if recognizing something no one else could see.
Outside, the village dogs howled, the oldest banyan tree shed three leaves, and a hermit goat refused to eat.
And above it all, the sun broke the mountains, casting its light not in gold, but a faint silver-blue, just for a moment.
The old great-grandfather, once a priest, watched silently from the corner. His hands shook—not in fear, but recognition.
“He has come back,” he whispered.
“The one the mountain owed us.”
Far away, in a cold, stone temple guarded by silence, a hooded tantric looked into the black mirror of time.
He smiled bitterly.
“The Rawat child has returned…”
“Let’s see if he survives what’s waiting for him.”
Back in the hut, Meera clutched her newborn.
Kartik's small hand reached out, curling slightly—almost as if he was holding something invisible.
The sacred thread tied by the yogi in his past life appeared faintly as a mark on his head, glowing for just a second before fading into skin.
No one saw it.
But the gods smiled.
The storm had been born.
And time, once still, began to move again.
Let me know if you want the aftermath—how the villagers react, how the great-grandfather begins guiding his grandson in secret, and what mysterious dreams Kartik starts having as a child ????