I sit cross-legged on the dusty ground, my crutch beside me, as the children gather around. My voice cracks with age, but my eyes are sharp. I tell them of two boys—Raju and Veeru—who once ruled these lands not with guns, but laughter.

They don’t know yet that the school they’ll attend was built on graves. That the man who funded it once wanted the other dead. That love survived where war failed.

But now, I see Radha and Vasu standing together at the podium, hands clasped. The sun rises behind them—golden, unbroken. Just like the promise we all thought lost.

This is not just a story. It’s a warning. A prayer. And maybe… a miracle.