Rain lashed down without mercy, turning narrow village paths into streams of brown water. Roofs creaked, trees groaned, and the swollen river roared like something alive.

Meera stood ankle-deep in mud near the school building, shouting instructions over the storm, her dupatta tied tightly around her waist. One arm steadied a frightened child; the other pointed villagers toward higher ground.

Meera: “No, not there—inside, near the windows! Move the grain sacks first!”

A jeep skidded to a halt nearby, its tires sinking. A tall man stepped out, raincoat already soaked, eyes scanning the chaos.

She noticed him then—the outsider. Clean boots ruined in seconds. City posture. Authority written into his bearing.

Meera: approaching, breathless “Sir, the river crossed the western bund. The old bridge is gone. If you want to reach the southern homes, you’ll have to go through the mango grove.”

She paused, realizing he was actually listening.

Meera: “I can guide you. The ground looks solid, but some parts will pull you under if you step wrong.”

For the first time since the storm began, she waited—for an answer.