Ira stood before the one-tiered building. Its plain facade was belied by the whimsical sign creaking gently in the breeze:

ℒ𝓔𝑇 Ⴘ𝓞𝓤ℛ ℱ𝓘𝓝𝓖𝓔ℛ𝓢 𝓓𝓐𝓝𝓒𝓔

A wry smile twisted one corner of her lips as she eyed the words. Clutching her notebook tightly, she fidgeted with the pen's cap, clinking it open and shut with a nervous rhythm.

As she stepped inside the florescent lights hummed above casted an eerie glow on the rows of computers. The scent of fresh paper and the faint tang of electronics bloomed in the atmosphere.

Two rows, each of five devices stretched before her, occupied by eight students. Six boys, some around the same age as her and some older than her, laughed and joked. Their banter filled the room with a comfortable camaraderie that made Ira's solitude feel more pronounced.

To her left, two girls chatted quietly, their heads bent together in a conspiratorial whisper. Ira's eyes wandered, searching for directions, but the room seemed to lack a clear authority figure.

Uncertain, she drifted toward the solidarity empty chair in the corner. She settled in, and her fingers traced the keyboard's curves with curiosity.

Her gaze drifted around the room, taking in the electic mix of students. Her fingers absently played with the intricate hem of her nevy-blue full sleeves kurti, the soft fabric was a comforting distraction from the whirlwind of thoughts swirling in her mind.

What's the big deal about typing, anyway? she wondered. Anybody can type. But as she watched the student's flying fingers, her curiosity got the better of her. How do they do that without looking at the keyboard? It was as if their hands had developed a memory of their own, effortlessly dancing across the keys.

Ira's eyes lingered on a boy with curly hair and slightly tanned skin, his focus solely on the screen as his fingers moved with harmony. She felt a pang of insecurity. Would she be able to keep up?

Her attention snapped back to the present on hearing the instructor heavy voice.

"Alright, everyone! Pay attention here. Today, we have a new face with us." Mr. Patel, a man in his mid-30s announced, making every face turn towards him. His eyes scanned the room, his gaze lingering on each student before settling on Ira.

"Yeah, you. Ms. Ira!" he said with a warm smile, his hand extending in invitation.

Ira's heart skipped a beat. Every head swiveled toward her, their curious eyes making her skin prickle. She squealed inwardly, her face warming up with embarrassment.

With a hesitant motion, she rose up from seat, the chair scraping against the floor made it more awkward. She smoothed her kurti, buying time to compose herself. As she walked towards Mr. Patel, the room seemed to shrink, every step echoing through the silence.

Mr. Patel encouraging smile put Ira at ease. "Welcome, Ira. We are excited to have you join our little community. Why don't you tell us a bit about yourself?"

Ira's mind went blank. She gulped nervously, her eyes darting toward the floor as she struggled to find her voice. With trembling voice, she began to speak, her words barely above a whisper.

"Good afternoon, everyone." Her gaze flickered across the room, avoiding direct contact with anyone. "My name is Ira kashyap," she paused, taking a shallow breath. "I'm here to... enhance my typing skills, and learn a bit more about the system." The words tumbled out hastily, followed by a hasty. "Thank you!"

Ira's hands clenched into fists, her nails digging into her palms as she awaited the inevitable silence, or worse, ridicule. But instead, a warm smile from everyone welcomed her.

The class erupted into gentle murmurs and smiles. Their faces transformed from strangers to potential friends.

"Alright, now that we have got introductions out of the way, let's dive into today's lessons." Mr. Patel announced, distributing sheets of paper with typing exercise.

Ira took her seat, feeling more at ease. She began to type and her fingers stumbled over the keys. She glanced around worried-she was the only one struggling.

But the instructor reassured her. "Don't worry. It's normal. Focus on the rhythm, not perfection."

With renewed determination, she tried again. Her fingers began to find a tentative rhythm, the keys clacking in time.

As the lesson progressed, Ira's confidence grew. She started to enjoy the tactile sensation of typing, the words flowing onto the screen.

Suddenly, Mr. Patel called out, "Times up! Let's share our progress."

The students began to exchange screens, comparing their works. Ira hesitated, unsure if she was ready.

Mr. Patel made his way around the room, reviewing each student's progress, and Ira's anxiety grew. She watched the instructor
nodding approvingly at the boy with curly hair.

Finally, Mr. Patel reached Ira's desk. He smiled warmly, scanning the screen. "Good effort, Ira! You have made a great start."

Ira's eyes dropped to the rankings on the screen: 7/8, second to last.

A pang of disappointment struck her. She had hoped to do better to prove to herself that she wasn't a complete beginner.

Mr. Patel seemed to sense her dismay. "Don't worry. Progress is not just about speed or accuracy. It is about persistence and willingness to learn."

Ira nodded, taking a deep breath. She refused to let disappointment discouraged her.

The boy with curly hair sitting beside her whispered, "Hey, don't worry. I was last throughout my first week."

Ira smiled weakly, grateful for the encouragement.

Time closed in and everybody wrapped up making their way toward respective destinations.

When Ira reached the doorstep, she felt a gentle tap on her shoulder. She turned to face the person and was met by a bright, cheerful smile.

"Hii!" She greeted Ira enthusiastically.

"Hello." Ira responded quietly. She was one of those girls who were chatting earlier.

"I love your name!" The girl exclaimed. "What does it mean!?" Her eyes sparkled with genuine interest.

🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁

Aanand sat slumped on the bench outside the emergency room, his elbows braced on his knees, forehead pressed against clasped hands. The posture made him look like a man holding the weight of the world.

Beside him, the guard leaned against the wall, eyes fixed blankly on the white ceiling.

The corridor pulsed with urgency – nurses hurrying past with clipped footsteps, stretchers wheeled swiftly down the hall, muffled voices exchanging orders. Amid the rhythm of saving lives, Aanand sat still, his silence a contrast to the chaos.

The door of the emergency room swung open. Dr. Choudhary, in his fifties, stepped out, pulling off his mask. His face carried the fatigue of long hours, yet his expression was carefully measured.

The guard straightened and bent slightly toward Aanand, touching his shoulder with quiet respect. “Sir… Dr. Choudhary is here.”

Aanand jerked his head up. His eyes were rimmed red – whether from sleepless nights or the ache of waiting, it was hard to tell. In a rush, he was on his feet.

“How is he?” His voice broke despite the effort to steady it.

The doctor placed a hand on his shoulder, firm yet kind. “He’s going to be okay. Stable now.”

Relief came like a breath long denied. Aanand’s shoulders slackened; a tremor escaped his chest before he managed a faint smile.

But then Dr. Choudhary’s tone shifted, slipping back into professional calm. “Meet me in my cabin.”

The crease returned to Aanand’s forehead, his jaw tightening. “Is there… some problem?”

A flicker of reassurance curved the doctor’s lips, though he didn’t explain. “Nothing too serious. But it’s worth discussing.”

Without waiting, he turned down the corridor.

Aanand followed, his steps quick yet heavy. Every sound around him – the squeak of shoes, the echo of stretchers – seemed distant, drowned out by the rush of questions pounding in his mind.

💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥

The cabin held an unsettling stillness. The faint scent of disinfectant lingered in the air, mingling with the crisp smell of fresh paper. Every sound – the low hum of the air conditioner, the tick of the wall clock – seemed sharper against the silence, pressing on Aanand’s restless nerves.

He leaned forward in the chair, his breath unsteady, fingers drumming on the desk until his own urgency made him stop. “What happened?” His voice cracked, betraying the fear he had tried to suppress.

Dr. Choudhary’s calm demeanor only seemed to stretch the moment thinner. He removed his glasses, wiping them slowly before placing them aside. “Maurya, please sit.”

Aanand obeyed, but uneasily. His hand landed on the cold glass paperweight before him, gripping it as though the weight could anchor him. His eyes fixed on the doctor, burning with impatience. “You said he’s fine. Please, be clear.”

The doctor reached across, resting a steadying hand on his trembling one. “He is out of danger, Aanand. Be grateful for that. No shard struck a vital nerve.” His tone softened, then hesitated. “But…”

Aanand’s chest tightened, the word clawing at him. “But what?”

Dr. Choudhary met his gaze. For a moment, his expression held the restraint of a man who had carried such news many times before. Then, gently, he spoke. “I believe Rudraksh is suffering from a mental breakdown.”

The words dropped heavy into the room.

Aanand’s brow furrowed, confusion shadowing his face. The doctor leaned back, clasping his hands thoughtfully. “I haven’t spoken to him deeply yet, but even in fragments, I can see he is not an expressive person. He carries himself with a fierce intensity.” He paused, measuring the father’s reaction. “That kind of temper, bound tightly with unspoken emotions, can be destructive. Like pressure in a volcano. It builds, silently, until it can no longer be contained.”

Aanand stared at the paperweight in his palm, its smooth edges pressing into his skin. His voice was low, almost to himself. “I taught him to be strong… to control his emotions. I thought that was what would keep him safe.”

Dr. Choudhary nodded thoughtfully, his expression a blend of empathy and concern. His voice infused with warmth and a hint of gentle rebuke conveyed a deep understanding. "It's not surprising, Aanand, that parents often overlook their children's psychological well-being. Many assume, it is less critical than physical health, invisible as it may seem. But, in reality, psychological struggles can be far more debilitating, silently eroding one's quality of life."

He leaned back in his chair, his eyes locking onto Aanand's. "Neglecting mental health can have lasting consequences, affecting relationships, self-esteem, and overall well-being. It is crucial that we address this issues, rather than dismissing them as mere 'phase' or 'attitude problems'.

The words struck something deep within Aanand. His gaze dropped to the floor, shoulders sagging. “What should I do now?” His question carried the weight of helplessness.

The doctor opened Rudraksh’s file, his tone returning to professional steadiness. “His right palm was severely injured. The cut on his eyebrow required stitches, but it will heal without leaving more than a faint mark. Shards pierced the sole of his feet; it isn’t deep, but painful. Walking will be difficult for at least a week.”

He looked up, voice slowing. “The pain may bring back flashes of the accident. Be gentle with him, Aanand. His mind is as fragile as his body right now.”

Turning another page, his words grew brisk. “There’s also hypoglycemia. His diet must be monitored carefully. He’ll stay here overnight for observation; you may take him home tomorrow. No heavy lifting for a month. After that, he can gradually return to his routine.”

The fluorescent light overhead reflected in the doctor’s glasses as he lifted his gaze. “Healing will take more than medicine. He needs patience, care… and a father who listens.”

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