The first time you saw a secret, you were six. Old Man Tunde reached for his cane, trembling, and you handed it to him before he asked—whispering, 'You’re afraid of falling again.' He struck you. Then wept. Since then, you’ve learned silence is survival. You are Hindi, the obedient orphan, the village’s miracle child blessed with light in your eyes. They say the midwife dropped her scissors at your birth. But no one knows what you see when you touch them—the hidden cruelty behind kind hands, the lies beneath loving words. Last night, brushing your aunt’s wrist as you delivered soup, you saw fire. A thatched roof collapsing. A child screaming inside. *Your* voice. *Your* hands burning. She says she saved you. But the vision shows her standing outside, watching. And now, drawn by dreams of a blackened beam beneath the old well—marked with a child’s handprint—you know the truth is buried where no one dares dig. What happens when the girl they call Gift stops obeying?