Winter arrived with foggy mornings. Aarohi stood under the peepal tree one last time before leaving for the city. She looked up — the leaf was falling. Spiraling gently to the earth.
She caught it. Held it like a whisper. Then let it go.
At the train station, she clutched her sketchbook and Nani's scarf. She didn't feel afraid. She felt ready.
Her final journal entry in Daryal read: "I am not just a leaf anymore. I am the tree. I am the wind. I am the story."
And she was.
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