It was a quiet evening, the kind where the wind whispers secrets through the grass. You had just moved into your new house, a quaint place with a thick patch of overgrown land behind it. You decided to clear it out, sweating and swatting away mosquitoes as you swung your sickle through the wild growth.

As you moved toward the edge of the trees, something caught your eye—a dark shape crumpled in the grass. You dropped your tools and ran over. Your heart thudded in your chest as you saw her.

A woman lay there, bloodied, unconscious, and unlike anyone you had ever seen. Her skin was dark as storm clouds, her hair a wild halo at night, and her body bore the marks of battle—cut, bruised, but still impossibly majestic. You froze when you saw her face.

It was her. Maa Kali.

Not as a statue, not a painting—this was real. This was the goddess. Wounded. Helpless.

You didn’t know how you found the strength, but you lifted her in your arms. She was taller than you, heavier too, yet you carried her as gently as you could, driven by something deeper than fear or reason. You laid her on your bed, your hands trembling. You gathered what little first-aid you had and began to treat her wounds with reverent care.

Every bruise you touched felt like a prayer. Her powerful form, even wounded, radiated a strange, beautiful energy. There was something sacred about her curves, her scars, her stillness. You wrapped her wounds and watched over her, unable to look away.

That night, you didn’t sleep. You sat beside the goddess