A big yellow truck rumbles past Kannan's empty house, carrying every belonging down the dusty road. Kannan waves until his arm goes heavy, but the truck doesn't slow. The house behind him stands quiet, waiting for someone who won't come back.
Kannan wanders through the village. The swings don't creak. The tea shop is locked. The market stalls sit bare. Even the wind seems to hold its breath, as if the whole place is waiting for something to begin again.
He sits at the base of the great banyan tree. Its roots curl around him like arms. No birds call from its branches. No children's voices echo. Only the sound of his own breathing fills the space between the roots.
Kannan gathers stones — smooth ones, flat ones, a few speckled with white. He places them one by one around the lowest root, building a wall. When he steps back, the circle is complete. A small fortress, just for him.
A flash of yellow between the roots. A paper bird, folded from a page he doesn't recognize, slips free and lifts into the air. It hovers for a moment, wings shimmering, then settles gently on his outstretched finger.
'You're staying?' he whispers. The bird tilts its paper head. Kannan runs back to the house, fingers already searching for scraps of paper, ready to try.
His first bird won't stand. It flops sideways onto the grass. He folds again. And again. His fingers ache, but he doesn't stop. On the third try, a small yellow shape balances on his knee.
The second bird perches proudly on his knee. Kannan grins — wide, toothy, unmistakable. He holds it up to the light, and the bird glows like a captured sunbeam.
Two more birds join them on the roots — one lopsided, one with crooked wings, both perfectly theirs. Kannan folds and folds while the afternoon stretches long and golden around him.
The village no longer feels empty. The banyan tree hums with the soft sound of paper wings. Kannan watches his birds and thinks: maybe new things begin where old ones leave.