The granary palace stood like a defiant monument against the dying land.
Built of red stone and polished teak, it towered over the starving village like a god carved by merchants — its windows arched like eyebrows raised in judgment, its storerooms overflowing with sacks of rice, wheat, and lentils that had not seen fire or hunger in years.
This was where Yuvan lived — the only son of Seth Mahadev Das, the wealthiest grain merchant in all of Vaishali.
Yuvan had never walked barefoot. He had never eaten without spice, never known a night without warmth, never looked into the eyes of a hungry child… until yesterday.
And now, for reasons he could not explain, he could not sleep.
The evening breeze drifted through his marble room, brushing past silk curtains and golden chandeliers. But no amount of coolness calmed the burning image in his mind:
The girl.
Dust-covered. Eyes sharp with sadness. Voice quiet, yet unshakable.
"If I starve feeding others… then my hunger has purpose."
Her words had cut through his carefully built pride like a blade.
He had laughed it off. To his father. To the servants. Even to himself.
But now… alone in the dark… he felt something he had never allowed himself to feel:
Shame.
Yuvan had been raised like a prince.
Not a day passed in his childhood when he was not reminded:
"You are the future of this business."
"We feed kingdoms, Yuvan — but only those who pay."
"Compassion is for poets. You are a merchant."
He was taught to measure value in coins, not feelings.
Kindness was weakness. Generosity — a luxury only the rich could afford when it cost them nothing.
And yet, in the last few days, he had heard stories that unsettled him.
Villagers talking about a girl who shared her last spoon of gruel with strangers, who carried buckets of water for old widows, who refused food if someone else was hungrier.
At first, he thought it was myth. But then… she had come to him.
Not begging — offering to work. To serve. For a handful of grain.
And when he refused, she hadn't cursed him. She hadn't begged.
She had simply walked away.
Not in defeat.
But with dignity he did not understand.
That night, Yuvan walked through the granary halls alone.
Each sack of rice seemed heavier. Each locked storeroom felt colder. The stone walls echoed not with security — but with silence.
He opened one of the ledgers — page after page of transactions, profits, weights. But the numbers no longer comforted him.
"She feeds people with nothing," he murmured. "And I… do nothing with everything."
He slammed the ledger shut.
"Why can't I stop thinking about her?" he muttered, frustrated.
The servants had already begun whispering:
"Maybe the girl cast a spell…"
"She's a witch of hunger."
"She wants his pity."
But Yuvan knew better.
What she had cast wasn't a spell — it was truth.
And truth has a weight even gold cannot balance.
The next morning, he stood by the window, watching a group of children chasing a half-broken wooden wheel through the street, barefoot, laughing despite their cracked lips and hollow cheeks.
Among them, he spotted her.
Anaya.
She was handing a handful of boiled leaves to a coughing elder. Smiling. Not because she had plenty — but because she gave anyway.
His fists clenched.
He turned away.
His voice echoed through the marble hall.
"Bring me the keys to storeroom number five. And summon my father."
The first grain of doubt had entered the heart of the boy in the palace.
And the gods, watching from above, leaned in a little closer.
The granary was full. But for the first time… Yuvan's heart felt empty.
And somewhere in that emptiness, a seed had been planted.