The villagers called him Ash-Born.
They found him lying near the ruins after the lightning storm—naked, pale, unblinking. No one knew his parents. No one claimed him. He was taken in by Dasi, a widow who needed an extra pair of hands more than she feared a curse.
The boy said little. When asked his name, he just frowned, as if trying to remember something lost in smoke.
At night, he sat near the old ruined temple, eyes closed, breath slow. Dogs avoided him. Crows followed him. Children threw pebbles. He didn't flinch.
One afternoon, a bull got loose during the harvest festival. It charged toward a group of children. Screams echoed through the fields. Arjun—no, Aarav, the name Dasi gave him—stepped forward. He raised a hand, instinctively.
The bull froze mid-charge. Snorted. Lowered its head—and walked away.
People stared.
That night, the elders whispered. A priest poured salt outside Dasi's hut. "He's not right," they said. "He brought something with him."
But in the boy's chest, something stirred. Not pride. Not fear. Just breath. Deep and old.
The curse wasn't on him. The curse was the world's forgetfulness.