The water had stopped.

  That was the only mercy. It hung just meters below the treehouse platform, a glassy, endless sheet swallowing the world they’d known. Vihaan’s father stood at the window, his knuckles white on the sill. His breath fogged the pane with each exhale, then cleared, then fogged again—a rhythm as steady as a dying man’s pulse.

  Vihaan watched Arya instead.

  His brother sat slumped against the wall, phone clutched in his limp hands. The screen had gone dark long ago, but his thumb still twitched over it absently, as if scrolling through a world that no longer existed. His eyes were glazed, fixed on nothing. For the first time in his life, Arya looked lost.

  Then—

  A snap. A sharp inhale. Arya’s fingers tightened around the phone. He held down the power button until the screen flashed "Powering off", then stood abruptly and placed it on a high shelf, wedged between two warped planks.

  "This might come in handy later."

  Their father turned, eyebrows lifting. Arya didn’t meet his gaze. Instead, he strode to the center of the treehouse, kicking aside their scattered supplies with sudden purpose.

  "I don’t know what’s going on," he said, voice rough but clear, "but standing here doing nothing gets us nowhere."

  Vihaan felt something tighten in his chest. This wasn’t the Arya who’d whined about blisters or faked being sick to skip farm work. This version of his brother stood straighter, eyes sharp as broken glass.

  "Dad—you’re good with household stuff. Reinforce the floor, check the roof. Vihaan, help him." Arya yanked a coil of rope from the wall, looping it over his shoulder. "I’m getting wood."

  Their father stiffened. "We have enough for weeks—"

  "And then what?" Arya jabbed a finger toward the water. "You see a forest down there? A lumberyard?" He dragged a hand through his hair. "I’ll start with the lower branches of Anant Vriksh. We can’t strip it bare, but we’ll need spares. Then I’ll look for floating debris. Anything we can dry and use."

  A pause. Their father’s jaw worked silently. Vihaan saw the conflict in his eyes—pride warring with fear. Arya had never taken charge like this.

  "You can’t swim in that," their father said at last. "We don’t know what’s in it."

  Arya snorted. "Better than sitting here waiting to starve." He grabbed a rusted hook knife from the tool pile and tucked it into his belt. The handle was cold against his skin, like a warning. "I’ll tie off. If something pulls me under, you haul me back."

  Vihaan expected his father to refuse. To bar the door, to insist they think, to wait for some sign that never came.

  Instead, the man exhaled slowly and nodded. "One hour. Then you return. No arguing."

  Arya flashed a grin—all teeth, no joy. "Yes, sir."

  As his brother climbed down the branches, Vihaan caught his arm. "You’re not scared?"

  Arya still. For a heartbeat, the mask slipped; Vihaan saw the tremor in his fingers, the too-quick rise of his chest. Then Arya shrugged. "Terrified. But panic won’t fix shit." He jerked his chin toward their father, who was already inspecting the roof beams. "He’s in shock. You’re in your head. Someone’s gotta do something."

  He dropped into the water without another word.

  Vihaan watched the ripples fade, his throat tight. For years, he’d envied Arya’s easy confidence, his ability to laugh through trouble. Now, he understood the truth: his brother hadn’t been fearless.

  He’d just been better at hiding it. He wishes to be like him.

  The surface rippled once… then went still again.

  The water embraced Arya with a strange, weightless calm.

  It was cold, but not biting. Clearer than any lake he’d ever swum in — so clear, in fact, that he could see several meters below, all the way to the soft blur of a sunken treetop, its leaves swaying like it was still alive. He kicked gently, adjusting to the feel of it. There was no smell, no sting in his eyes. Just silence and soft ripples.

  He surfaced, took a deep breath, then swam to one of the outer branches of Anant Vriksh that curved downward into the water. He climbed onto it and pulled himself halfway out, dripping and panting.

  The bark here was smooth and solid — like the rest of the tree, untouched by rot or erosion. He took out the hook knife, found a thinner limb thick enough to be useful, and began to saw.

  The blade screeched slightly against the bark. He flinched. Even that small sound felt loud in the stillness.

  As the branch came loose, he tied it to a length of rope looped around his shoulder. He moved on, repeating the process, careful not to take too much. The tree was their shelter, maybe their salvation. He didn’t want to hurt it more than necessary.

  Here and there, pieces of debris floated past — a woven basket, a small wooden plank, even a tangle of vines that had broken loose from somewhere far below. Arya kicked over and guided them toward the treehouse, tying them off at the platform’s edge.

  He paused to rest, one arm over a large chunk of floating wood. It looked like part of someone’s roof, maybe a porch beam. Moss still clung to the underside. A single flip-flop bobbed next to it.

  Arya stared at it for a second longer than he meant to.

  Then he turned away.

  Up above, his father crouched on the edge of the treehouse, watching closely. His eyes never left Arya, but his hands were busy — tightening ropes, checking knots, tapping the wood with knuckles to test for hollowness. The structure creaked softly under him but held firm.

  He had seen how close the water had come. A few more meters, and they would have lost the floor.

  He didn’t speak. He didn’t call out. But every so often, he would nod, just slightly, when Arya looked up. A signal: I see you. Keep going.

  Inside the treehouse, Vihaan sorted supplies into neat stacks, checking for anything water-damaged, trying to focus. But he kept glancing at the window, counting the seconds Arya stayed underwater each time, holding his own breath without realizing it.

  The surface remained still — mostly.

  But every now and then, something floated up: a single dead leaf, a cracked wooden spoon, a child’s toy boat, warped and half-sunk.

  The water itself was still beautiful, clean. No smell, no murk, no fish or movement beneath the surface. Just a smooth sheet stretching forever. But it was too perfect. Like it didn’t belong here. Like the world had been wiped clean.

  Vihaan reached over the edge and grabbed the first bundle of tied wood.

  The wet bark was heavy in his hands, but the rope helped. He dragged it up onto the platform with a grunt, water pooling beneath it as it landed. One by one, he brought in the others — long branches, planks, half-broken crates, and water-swollen beams. Some pieces were slick with moss, others surprisingly clean. All of it soaked.

  He hauled them toward the open side of the treehouse — a wide balcony-like area that overlooked the shimmering stillness below. The sun hung low now, casting golden lines across the surface of the water. Vihaan laid the wood out in careful rows, spacing each piece so they’d dry faster.

  Stolen story; please report.

  He paused for a moment, catching his breath. The air smelled faintly of damp wood and warmth. Somewhere behind him, he heard a soft clatter — the familiar sound of utensils.

  Their dad was cooking.

  He’d taken a small steel pan from their supplies and placed it over the clay stove near the corner. Flames crackled beneath it, and a light sizzle filled the space as vegetables hit the pan. A soft, earthy aroma followed — wheat flour warming, jaggery melting slightly from the nearby heat. It was the kind of scent that belonged to comfort, to home.

  Vihaan watched quietly for a second, surprised by how steady his father’s hands were. He expected more panic. But maybe this was how his father processed — through action.

  The quiet was broken by a wet thud.

  Arya pulled himself up onto the edge of the platform, completely drenched. Water streamed from his clothes, forming a trail as he staggered forward and dropped the last piece of tied wood with a grunt.

  His hair was plastered to his forehead, clothes clinging to his skin, and his feet left prints behind him as he walked toward the fire.

  “You smell that?” he said, voice hoarse but teasing. “I’m about to eat everything.”

  Their dad turned to him, arms crossed. “And then what? Sit around in those wet clothes and invite a fever?”

  Arya blinked. “Huh?”

  “You’re soaked. We don’t have extra clothes. Unless you’re planning on getting sick, you better do something about it.”

  Arya paused, looking down at himself, then around. “...Crap.”

  Vihaan raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t think that far, huh?”

  Arya shrugged. “I was too busy saving our butts.”

  He disappeared inside the storage side of the treehouse and returned a moment later in nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. His soaked clothes were draped across one of the larger planks Vihaan had laid out to dry.

  “This is the dumbest apocalypse ever,” he muttered, sitting cross-legged near the fire. “We’ve got clean water, a big tree, and I’m half-naked waiting for boiled vegetables.”

  Their dad handed him a steel plate. “You forgot scared out of your mind.”

  Arya gave a tired grin. “That too.”

  Vihaan sat beside them, silent for a moment. The sky outside was turning orange, clouds brushing soft shadows over the vast mirrored ocean.

  Everything had changed.

  But dinner still smelled the same.

  And for now, that was enough.

  The fire crackled low as the scent of roasting flour and spices filled the air.

  Their father stirred a small pot, steam rising in lazy curls as he added a handful of chopped vegetables — bits of pumpkin, onion, and some wilted green leaves they'd salvaged before the climb. A few spices from an old pouch were sprinkled in, just enough to lift the flavor. He mixed wheat flour with water, rolled out rough circles on a metal plate, and pressed them flat before flipping them over the hot surface.

  The makeshift roti puffed slightly, crisp at the edges, soft in the center. Next to it, the vegetables cooked down into a thick stew, flavored with jaggery and a pinch of salt. It was simple, but warm. Real food. Familiar. The kind of meal that made them forget — just for a moment — that everything had changed.

  Vihaan sat nearby, his legs pulled to his chest, watching the bubbles rise in the pot. He wasn’t hungry yet. Something inside him was still too knotted, too tight.

  His eyes drifted past the balcony and into the fading light.

  And suddenly, it hit him.

  This wasn’t just their village.

  It wasn’t just the fields.

  It wasn’t just a few neighboring hills or a hidden lake.

  The world was gone.

  The water reached further than he could see — an ocean where land used to be. There were no smoke trails in the sky. No lights. No boats. No animals calling in the distance. Just endless reflection and silence. Even the wind had grown quiet, as if afraid to disturb the surface.

  How many people didn’t make it to higher ground?

  How many never had a chance?

  He felt it all at once — the weight of it pressing into his chest like a stone. His throat tightened.

  A single shape floated into view far in the distance.

  Human.

  Face down.

  Still.

  Vihaan looked away quickly.

  Their father, still stirring the pot, didn’t need to be told.

  “You see someone floating…” he said softly, eyes fixed on the fire, “don’t look at them. Not directly.”

  Arya, halfway through a bite of roti, looked up. “Why?”

  The fire popped.

  “Because they died before their time,” their dad said. His voice didn’t shake. It didn’t grow heavy or emotional. It was just… tired. “And we need to respect them.”

  Vihaan swallowed hard. “But... it’s not their fault.”

  “I didn’t say it was,” his father replied. “But the ones who pass early sometimes leave pieces behind. Regrets. Pain. Memories that don’t want to sink. If you stare too long… it might stare back.”

  Arya raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. Not this time.

  The fire crackled. Outside, the sky was nearly dark. The stars began to appear — clearer than they’d ever seen them before. As if the heavens had drawn closer now that the earth had fallen away.

  Vihaan said nothing. He simply stared into his plate, the warm food untouched.

  Because even here — safe, alive, together — the grief had found them.

  They ate in silence.

  No one asked for seconds. No one joked or fought over the last piece of roti. Even Arya, usually the loudest at any table, only nodded when their father offered him more. The fire crackled between them, casting flickering shadows across the walls of the treehouse.

  And when the plates were empty, they lay down on the wooden floor.

  No one said “good night.”

  No one really slept.

  For a long time, they just stared upward — through the small cracks in the ceiling, into the black sky scattered with stars. The kind of stars you only saw from mountaintops or dreams. Vihaan’s eyes traced constellations he barely remembered. Arya rolled to one side and muttered something about the silence. Their father said nothing at all.

  Eventually, sleep found them — not all at once, but slowly. Like the still water below, it crept in without sound.

  Morning light filtered through the narrow window, soft and golden.

  Vihaan blinked awake, the back of his neck sore from sleeping against the wood. Arya was still snoring lightly, curled under the towel, and the fire from last night had long burned out.

  He rubbed his eyes and sat up.

  Then he noticed the rustling sound.

  It was coming from the balcony.

  He stepped out quietly and saw his father crouched at the edge, working intently with something long and twisted in his hands. It looked like a thick vine — greenish-gray, textured like rope but alive. Several other lengths of it were piled nearby, freshly cut.

  “Baba?” Vihaan asked, still groggy. “What is that?”

  His father looked up, wiping sweat from his brow. He’d clearly been at it for hours. Maybe even since before sunrise.

  “This,” he said, holding up the vine, “is Giloy. A medicinal plant.”

  Vihaan squinted. “That grows up here?”

  The man nodded. “Our ancestors planted it. Long ago. Over time, it grew with the tree. Became part of it.” He ran a hand along the thick surface. “But this one’s different. Stronger. Thicker. Maybe because of Anant Vriksh. We’re not sure.”

  Vihaan stepped closer, watching as his father twisted the vine slowly, carefully.

  “See this part?” he said, pointing to a section that looked slightly swollen. “Most Giloy is thin. Hollow in places, but not consistent. This one — you press hard… twist slow…” He demonstrated, squeezing the vine and rotating it with his hands. “It pushes out the inside. Clears the path.”

  Vihaan noticed a small pouch beside him filled with sticky, fibrous pulp — the stuff pulled out from inside the vine.

  “This part,” his father continued, “we save. Can be boiled into medicine. For fevers. Infections. It may save us later.”

  Vihaan nodded slowly, running his fingers along the outer skin. It felt tough, but pliable. Alive.

  “And you’re making… a pipe?” he asked.

  His father smiled faintly. “Something like that. It's long enough. Flexible. And once hollowed out — breathable.”

  Vihaan blinked. “Wait… You mean, like a straw? For underwater?”

  “Exactly,” his father replied. “If the water doesn’t go down… we may need to search below.”

  Vihaan looked over the edge instinctively. The water shimmered, still high — just shy of the treehouse floor. Maybe two, three handspans. The wooden debris from yesterday bobbed silently.

  “You’re going down?” he asked.

  “Not now,” his father said. “But I have to test it. See how deep I can go. See if it works.”

  Vihaan hesitated. “Can it really reach the bottom?”

  “If this is still the same land… yes. It might.”

  A moment of silence passed between them.

  Then, without another word, their father stood and tied the vine around his waist, looping it twice for safety. He took the carved, cleaned end and placed it between his lips.

  The other end, he handed it to Vihaan.

  “Hold this. Tight. Don’t drop it.”

  Vihaan gripped it with both hands, his pulse beginning to quicken.

  His father gave a small nod. No fear in his eyes. Just focus.

  Then he turned… and stepped off the edge.

  Into the water.