The temple ruins stood like a corpse of the past—half-buried, cracked, and crawling with moss. No one dared go near it. Not even the village priests. "Bad spirits live there," they said. "Fallen gods."
Aarav kept going back.
Each night, he'd sneak away from Dasi's hut, barefoot across the cool soil, down the slope behind the banyan trees. He'd sit beneath the shattered statue of the goddess—once fierce, now faceless. Not to pray. Just to listen.
It started with wind, then rhythm—like the distant beat of a drum under the earth. Then came the pull.
One night, as he pressed his hand against the broken steps, a low grinding sound echoed. Stone shifted. A passage opened—narrow and dark, filled with dust thick as fog. He didn't hesitate. Something in his bones told him he belonged inside.
He found a chamber carved with symbols—mandalas, lotus patterns, suns within suns. At its center: a small stone box, untouched by time. He opened it.
Inside were scrolls. Ancient. Fragile. Written in a script he'd never seen—yet understood. As if the words were returning to him.
They spoke of Prana, Bandhas, Asana, and Dharana. Not as religion—but as systems. Methods of tuning the body, breath, and mind to align with the fabric of existence.
Aarav didn't understand it all. But his breath changed that night. Deeper. Quieter. Intentional.
He walked out of the ruins different.
The wind didn't just move around him anymore.
It noticed him.