The streets didn't feel as distant as before.
Not because people stopped noticing him, but because their reactions had changed.
Mira didn't let go of his hand.
Not while they walked.
Not when people looked.
At first, the distance remained.
People stepped aside.
Whispers followed.
But then someone hesitated.
A child, standing near a small stall, looked up at Aditya.
Didn't step back.
Didn't hide.
Mira noticed.
She slowed slightly.
"You're staring," she said casually.
The child blinked.
"…you're the one who stopped the sky."
Aditya said nothing.
Mira tilted her head.
"He also almost fell doing it."
The child looked confused.
"…you fell?"
Aditya gave a small nod.
"…yes."
The child thought about it.
Then—
"…then you're not that scary."
Mira smiled faintly.
"Exactly."
The child didn't move away this time.
And for the first time—
someone didn't create distance.
As they continued walking, others began to notice.
Not just him.
Her.
How she stood next to him.
How she spoke to him.
How he… listened.
The whispers changed.
Not gone, but different.
"…he's talking to her…"
"…he's not—"
"…he's normal?"
Not fear.
Uncertainty.
Turning into something else.
Aditya felt it.
"…they're changing."
Mira didn't look at him.
"They were always going to."
"…because of you?"
She shook her head slightly.
"No."
A pause.
"…because you let them."
He didn't respond.
But the words lingered.
They walked further into the quieter part of the city.
Where noise softened.
Where life slowed.
Mira finally let go of his hand.
Not abruptly.
Just… naturally.
As if it had served its purpose.
"You're getting better at this," she said.
"…at what?"
"Not making people feel like they're about to disappear."
A faint breath escaped him.
"…I'm trying."
"I can tell."
They stopped near a small structure at the edge of the district.
Simple.
Worn.
"This is where I live," she said.
Aditya looked at it.
"…you fix things here?"
She nodded.
"Most of the time."
She stepped inside.
He followed.
Inside—
tools.
Fragments.
Broken objects waiting to be repaired.
Nothing grand.
Nothing special.
But real.
Mira picked up a small, damaged mechanism from a table.
"This stopped working yesterday," she said.
She sat down and began adjusting it.
Carefully.
Aditya watched.
"…you don't replace it?"
She shook her head.
"If something can be fixed, you don't throw it away."
The same words as before.
But now—
he understood them differently.
"…even if it's broken beyond recognition?"
She paused.
Then looked at him.
"…especially then."
Silence settled again.
But this time—
it felt heavier.
More personal.
Aditya stepped closer.
"…why do you think that?"
Mira looked back at the object in her hands.
"…because I was one of those things."
He didn't interrupt.
"…my family didn't have much," she continued quietly.
"…we weren't important."
"…no one noticed us."
Her fingers tightened slightly around the tool.
"…until something broke."
A pause.
"…and suddenly, we mattered."
She adjusted the mechanism again.
More carefully this time.
"…we fixed things for people who wouldn't even look at us otherwise."
Another pause.
"…so I decided something."
She looked up at him.
"…if I can fix something, I will."
"…no matter what it is."
The words carried no pride.
Just truth.
Aditya stood there in silence.
Then—
slowly—
he reached out.
Not to take.
Not to control.
Just to… understand.
"…can I try?"
Mira blinked.
"…you?"
A faint hint of disbelief.
"…you split the sky."
"…this is different."
He didn't deny it.
"…that's why."
She studied him for a moment.
Then handed him the tool.
"Don't break it."
"…I won't."
He sat beside her.
Closer than before.
Carefully—
he examined the mechanism.
Not with overwhelming power.
Not with control over reality.
Just… attention.
Precision.
Time.
Mira watched him.
"…you're concentrating too hard."
"…I don't want to mess it up."
She leaned slightly closer.
"You won't."
Their shoulders almost touched.
Almost.
Aditya adjusted a small piece.
The mechanism clicked.
Then—
moved.
Working again.
Silence followed.
Then Mira smiled.
"…not bad."
He looked at it.
Then at her.
"…it's different."
"…how?"
"…this feels harder."
She laughed softly.
"It is."
A pause.
"…but it matters more."
The words settled between them.
Not loud.
But deep.
Outside—
the city continued to move.
People still watching.
Still learning.
But no longer stepping back as far.
No longer looking with the same fear.
Because the one who stood above them—
Was now sitting beside one of them.
Fixing something small.
Like it mattered.
And because of that—
They began to believe—
Maybe he wasn't beyond them after all.
Maybe—
He was still one of them.