That night, Noor awoke to hushed voices drifting through the thin walls of their home. She blinked in the darkness, her small fingers clutching the worn edge of her quilt. The moonlight cast pale slivers across the floor, and the distant sound of crickets filled the silence between words.

Her father's voice was low, heavy with something she didn't understand. "Yeh zulm kab tak chalega? Har hafte naye kanoon, naye tax... hamari mitti par unka  raaj"

[ till when thus injustice will continue? New taxes every week, Their rule on your land!]

Another man—maybe Chacha Iqbal—murmured, "Lekin hum kya kar sakte hain, Bhai sahib? Unke haathon talwar hai, hamare haathon bas mitti."

[ But what can we do? They have weapons while we only have our love for this land]

A third voice cut in, sharper this time. "Jis din yeh mitti hamari mutthi mein bandook ban jaaye, us din inka samrajya bhi mitti ho jayega."

[ The day this land in our grasp it will  become a weapon , on that day their empire  too will become dust.]

Noor frowned. Bandook. Talwar. The words felt strange in her mouth. Her father and his friends never spoke like this when she was around. She shifted, trying to peek through the wooden gaps of the door, but her mother's soft sigh stopped her.

"Bas karon yeh sab raat bhar ki baatein," her mother said, her voice quiet but firm. "Bacche hain hamare... Noor bhi ab samajhne lagi hai."

[Stop  talking about what's going on outside now, we have kids at home ,Noor has started understanding things now]

Noor's breath caught. Did they know she was listening? She squeezed her eyes shut and curled deeper into her quilt, pretending to sleep. But the voices continued, weaving through the night like the rustling wind.

And though Noor didn't understand everything, she knew one thing. Something was changing.

***

The next morning, the world outside was the same as always—hot sun, golden fields, and the distant clatter of carts rolling through the village market. But Noor felt different. Her father had promised to take her to the market today, and though she was excited, the whispers from the night before lingered in her mind.

As they stepped into the bustling bazaar, she clung to her father's hand, her wide eyes darting between stalls of fresh mangoes, turmeric-stained cloth, and glistening glass bangles. The scent of roasted peanuts and jaggery filled the air, and Noor grinned as she spotted a sweet shop.

"Baba, jalebi?" she asked, tugging his sleeve.

Her father chuckled, ruffling her hair. "Bas ek, theek hai?"

[Only one okay?]

But before they could reach the stall, a heavy silence spread across the market like a slow-moving shadow. The cheerful chatter faded, replaced by the rhythmic sound of boots against the dirt road.

Noor turned—and there they were. The British.

Gora.

Three soldiers, their crisp red coats bright against the dusty street, walked through the market, their gazes cold, detached. The villagers stepped aside, lowering their eyes, their bodies stiff with unspoken fear. Noor felt her father's grip tighten around her hand.

Then, one of the soldiers—an officer with sharp blue eyes—stopped. He looked around, his gaze skimming over the vendors, the children hiding behind their mothers... and then landing on Noor.

She didn't understand why, but something about his stare made her uneasy.

Before she could react, her father gently pulled her behind him. "Aao, Noor," he said softly, his voice steady.

She didn't argue. She let him lead her away, her small feet moving quickly over the uneven ground. And though she didn't look back, she could still feel the officer's eyes on her—watching, calculating, as if she were a puzzle he couldn't quite solve.

***

That afternoon, after her father had calmed her with stories and folk songs, Noor wandered into the village library. It was her favorite place, dusty and quiet, filled with endless stacks of books that smelled of old paper and ink.

As she traced her fingers over the spines of forgotten stories, a soft rustling noise caught her attention.

Noor frowned, stepping deeper into the corner of the library. Behind a tall bookshelf, nestled between two wooden crates, sat a boy. He was older than her, maybe seven, with light brown hair and pale skin. His knees were drawn to his chest, and in his hands, he clutched a book so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.

A British boy.

Noor had seen children like him before, standing beside their mothers in horse-drawn carriages, peeking curiously at the world outside. But she had never seen one alone.

He must have heard her footsteps because he quickly looked up, his blue eyes widening. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, Noor tilted her head. "Tum yahan kyun baithe ho?"

[Why are you sitting here?]

The boy hesitated before mumbling, "Shor pasand nahi."

[ I don't like loud noises]

Noor blinked. His Hindi was slow, a little unsure, but understandable.

She grinned, plopping down beside him. "Mujhe bhi."

[Me too]

The boy stared at her, as if trying to figure out if she was a threat. Then, carefully, he shifted his book toward her so she could see. The pages were filled with drawings—birds, rivers, trees, all sketched in careful detail.

Noor gasped. "Yeh toh bohot sundar hain!"

[This is so pretty]

The boy's ears turned pink. "Bas... waise hi."

[ just like that]

She reached out, tracing a finger over the page. "Mujhe bhi titliyan pasand hain," she whispered, as if sharing a great secret. "Par woh pakdi nahi jaati."

[ I also love butterflies,  but I'm never able to catch them]

The boy finally smiled, a small, shy thing, like the flutter of a bird's wing.

And just like that, the world outside didn't matter. Not the whispers of freedom, not the fear in the market, not the British officer's cold stare. Here, in the quiet corner of the library, Noor and the boy found something else.

A space where they could just be kids.

A place away from the cruel world.

The library smelled of old paper and ink, the air thick with the weight of forgotten stories. Noor sat cross-legged on the floor beside the strange British boy, watching as he sketched careful lines onto the yellowed page of his book.

He was quiet, quieter than anyone she had ever met. While Noor was a whirlwind of laughter and endless questions, this boy sat still, his eyes focused, his pencil moving as if afraid to make a mistake.

She couldn't help but stare.

"Tum hamesha akele baithe rehte ho?" Noor finally asked, breaking the silence.

[You always sit alone?]

The boy hesitated, his fingers tightening around his pencil. Then, with a small nod, he whispered, "Haan."

[Yes]

Noor frowned. "Koi dost nahi hai?"

[Don't you have friends?]

Another pause. Then, even quieter, "Nahi."

[Nope]

For some reason, that made Noor's heart squeeze. She couldn't imagine a world without friends, without Nani's warm hugs or Baba's stories or the loud, chattering villagers who always asked how big she'd grown. How could someone have no one?

She scooted a little closer, peeking at his book. "Tum yeh sab khud banate ho?"

[You make this yourself?]

The boy nodded again. His fingers traced over the delicate lines of a bird mid-flight, wings spread wide. Noor's eyes widened in admiration.

"Bohot sundar hai!" she breathed. "Jaise asal ka ho!"

[ It's very pretty, like it's real]

The boy glanced at her, as if unsure whether to believe her. Then, after a moment, he whispered, "Thanks."

Noor beamed. "Tumhari awaaz bohot patli hai," she observed. "Mujhe laga tha gore bahut zor se bolte hain."

[Your voice is very soft, I thought white people speak very loudly]

The boy stiffened at the word gore. Noor noticed, but she didn't take it back. That's what everyone called them—the British, the sahibs, the rulers who rode through her village with cold eyes. But this boy... he was different.

He didn't carry a gun. He didn't look down at her like she was nothing.

He just sat there, drawing birds.

"Tumhara naam kya hai?" she asked, tilting her head.

[Whats your name?]

The boy hesitated again, as if saying it out loud would break something fragile. But after a moment, he whispered, "Arthur."

Noor tried the name in her mouth. "Aar-thur." The letters felt strange, like pebbles rolling off her tongue. She scrunched her nose. "Bohot ajeeb sa naam hai."

[ it's a very weird name]

Arthur's lips twitched—almost a smile. "Noor bhi toh ajeeb hai."

[Noor is also weird]

Noor gasped, dramatically clutching her chest. "Ajeeb? Mera naam toh bohot sundar hai!"

[ weird? My name is very pretty]

Arthur's expression remained blank, but Noor swore she saw the smallest sparkle of amusement in his eyes.

She leaned closer, lowering her voice to a whisper. "Main tumse ek raaz share karoon?"
[Can I share a secret]

Arthur blinked at her but nodded.

Noor grinned. "Main na, bohot tezi se bhaag sakti hoon." She sat up straighter, proud. "Baba kehte hain ki main titli jaisi hoon—pakadna mushkil hai."

[You know I can run very fast, my father says that I'm also like a butterfly— Hard to catch]

Arthur looked down at his drawing, tapping the page with his pencil. "Isiliye tumhe titliyan pasand hain?"

[That's why you love butterflies?]

Noor tilted her head. "Kya matlab?"

[What do you mean?]

Arthur hesitated, then quietly said, "Kyunki tum bhi udna chahti ho."

[Beacuse you also want to fly]

Noor blinked. The thought had never crossed her mind, but as she sat there, staring at the sketched wings of Arthur's bird, she realized... maybe he was right.

Maybe she did want to fly.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The outside world felt far away—the whispers of freedom, the fear in the market, the heavy eyes of the British officers. Here, in the dusty corners of the library, it didn't matter.

Slowly, Noor held out her small hand. "Dost banoge?"

[Wanna be friends?]

Arthur looked at her hand as if unsure what to do with it. His fingers twitched, then hesitated.

Then, finally—hesitantly—he reached out and shook it.

Noor's grin widened. "Ab se tum mere dost ho, Aar-thur."

[From now, you're my friend Aar-thur]

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Tum theek se naam bhi nahi bol sakti."

[ you can't even take my name properly]

"Main toh theek hi bol rahi hoon!" Noor huffed.

[I'm speaking it correctly!]

Arthur shook his head but didn't argue. And for the first time since Noor had met him, he actually smiled.

A real smile.

Noor decided then and there—she liked Arthur.

And she wasn't going to let him be alone