MYSTERIOUS GIRL

Fear

Nishant Pov

I have always belonged to the mornings.

While the world negotiates with sleep, I make peace with discipline.

4:00 AM.

Every single day.

The alarm rarely gets the chance to ring twice. My body knows. My mind knows. Success does not sleep — so neither do I.

The air at that hour in New York City feels different. Cleaner. Honest. As if the city removes its makeup before sunrise. No noise. No chaos. No competition. Just ambition breathing quietly in the cold wind.

I tighten my laces and step out.

The skyline stands tall like a promise. Eight years in this city — and it still humbles me. Still challenges me. Still dares me to prove myself.

I run past glass towers that reflect dreams bigger than reality. I run past silent streets that will soon roar with traffic and tempers. The early breeze cuts against my face, but I welcome it.

Pain reminds me I'm alive.

I was fourteen when I first arrived here. Fourteen — too young to understand sacrifice, too old to cry without shame.

My father had joined the American Army. Duty had called him away from Nepal, and he answered. He brought my mother and me along so he could see us during holidays. At least that was the plan.

Plans rarely ask for permission before changing.

Soon, decisions were made. Good school. Better future. Bigger opportunities. I was enrolled in a prestigious boarding school in New York. My mother returned to Nepal to manage my grandfather's university. My father remained posted.

And just like that — I became independent before I knew what independence meant.

Hostel rooms echo differently at night. You hear your own breathing too loudly. You learn how to swallow tears silently. You learn how to clap for yourself because no one else is there to do it.

Except... she was.

My grandmother.

My real guardian.

She attended every parent-teacher meeting. Every sports day. Every school event. She stood there proudly while other kids clung to their mothers and fathers. I never felt alone when she was around.

She smelled like sandalwood and safety.

I spent most of my childhood holding her wrinkled hands, listening to stories about courage, resilience, and dignity. When my parents were busy building futures, she built mine.

Then came the day I had to leave her.

I remember her eyes — red from crying but smiling for my sake.

"Boy," she had said, cupping my face in her trembling hands, "whatever is happening is for your good. Don't think your granny doesn't love you enough to keep you here. If you go there and study, you will become a great man. You are my strong boy, aren't you?"