Chhaya and Prabal and the Lighthouse

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The sky is a soft blue blanket with tiny holes for stars. A small light blinks awake, not sure where to go. Everything is quiet except the wind singing through the clouds.

Chhaya is a tiny star, just born. The sky feels big and empty around her. She drifts, but something pulls her down. Not gravity, not wind—softer than that. CHHAYA: "I don’t know where to rest." The pull comes again, like a hand brushing her light.

Below, the clouds part. A path of silver mist glows on the dark. It leads to a place called Nidra Veedhi—the Street of Sleep. The mist hums a low, slow song. CHHAYA: "What is that sound?" The mist swirls around her feet. It feels warm, like a breath held too long. PRABAL: "It’s waiting for you." Chhaya turns. A small comet drifts beside her, his tail glowing faintly. CHHAYA: "Light stays, light goes." PRABAL: "Light stays when it’s ready." He nods toward the mist. The silver path pulses, dim and bright, dim and bright.

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