After sorting everything — logs stacked at the edge, ropes neatly coiled, and two bags full of rescued supplies tied down — the three of them finally sat down.

  The water below was calm again. The world around them was quiet. The sky above burned a pale gold, as if pretending everything was normal.

  Their father sat cross-legged, elbows resting on his knees, thinking. Then he looked up.

  “Now that we’ve got food to eat and logs to build our raft,” he began, “we can start working on our next goal.”

  He pointed at Arya. “You’ll keep gathering wood for fire. And keep an eye on anything floating by. If it looks useful — rope, plastic, bags, anything — grab it.”

  Arya gave a lazy salute. “Aye, aye.”

  Then their dad turned to Vihaan. “You and I will work on the raft. You just copy what I do.”

  Vihaan nodded.

  Without wasting time, their father stood and walked over to the tool shed — really just an old, beat-up trunk under the stairs that had been there longer than any of them. He opened it and began moving things aside: rusted nails, tangled cords, an old kettle missing its lid.

  Arya leaned over, chewing on a piece of dried mango.

  “What’re you looking for?”

  “An axe,” their father muttered. “I know it’s here somewhere...”

  He kept digging, pulling out tool after tool, half of them more rust than metal.

  Finally, with a grunt of satisfaction, he held it up.

  The handle was cracked but solid, the blade stained but sharp enough.

  “Found it.”

  Arya raised an eyebrow. “That doesn’t look safe.”

  “It’ll hold,” their dad replied, giving the handle a light tap. “And if it doesn’t, we’ll fix it.”

  He turned to Vihaan, handed him a bundle of rope, and pointed to the logs.

  “Let’s begin.”

  Their father placed one of the thicker logs onto the floor and knelt beside it. Without wasting a moment, he raised the axe and began to chop, steady and strong.

  Thud.

  Thud.

  Thud.

  Wood chips scattered with each swing, sharp cracks echoing across the platform. Vihaan stood nearby, watching closely. His eyes followed every motion, every shift of grip, every angle. His father didn’t waste energy. Every strike was precise — like he knew exactly where to cut.

  Arya lingered behind them, casually watching too, leaning against a post and chewing on a peanut.

  Their father didn’t even glance back.

  “Didn’t I give you something to do?”

  Arya blinked. “Yes?”

  “Then get on with it.”

  Arya scowled. “Why are you only scolding me? Vihaan’s just standing here too.”

  Vihaan pouted slightly. “My work starts after this log is done. So… hmm.”

  Their father finally turned, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his arm. “Exactly. Now you know what to do, right?”

  Arya let out a dramatic sigh, turned, and ran toward the edge. “Fine, fine.”

  He leapt into the water with a splash, muttering something about “slave labor” on his way down.

  Back on the platform, the rhythmic chopping continued.

  Vihaan watched as his father sliced deeper into the wood, slowly shaping it from a thick, knotted log into a long, rectangular plank. His arms moved with practiced strength, muscles tensing with each swing. Vihaan had always known his father was strong — he’d grown up seeing it every day — but watching him work like this, methodical and sure, was something else.

  Finally, with one last strike, the log split neatly into the shape they needed.

  His father handed the piece to Vihaan. “Here. Make sure all the sides are smooth. Nothing sharp. Don’t want anyone getting cut if they fall on it.”

  He handed him a knife — old, but sharp — and pointed to both ends of the plank.

  “Also, carve out a hole on each side. We’ll need to tie it in place later.”

  Vihaan nodded, took the wood, and sat down cross-legged near the wall. He ran his fingers along the surface first — checking for rough spots and jagged splinters. There were plenty. Carefully, he began slicing them away, bit by bit, watching the curls of wood fall to the floor.

  His father had already grabbed another log and returned to chopping — the steady rhythm beginning again like a heartbeat in the background.

  Vihaan kept working.

  They had a long way to go — but they had started.

  And that mattered.

  Vihaan ran his hand along the now-smoothed plank. No bumps. No sharp splinters. Satisfied, he set the knife aside and looked at the next task: making a hole.

  That… he wasn’t sure how to do.

  He sat there for a moment, frowning at the spot where the rope would need to go through. Then, a memory surfaced — something he’d seen in an old video once. Someone spinning a stick on another piece of wood to make fire.

  Friction.

  Maybe it would work here too.

  He picked up the knife again, gripped it with both hands, and pressed the tip against the log. Slowly, he began to twist it — rotating back and forth, trying to mimic the fire-starting motion. It started to scrape, but the progress was slow. Real slow. Not quite what he had imagined.

  Behind him, his father glanced over.

  “You’re trying the right thing,” he said, walking over, “but you need more force for now.”

  Taking the knife, he knelt beside Vihaan and positioned it at the end of the log.

  “Watch closely.”

  Thud.

  He slammed the knife’s point into the wood — not hard enough to split it, but deep enough to dig in.

  Then, he twisted the blade and lifted it.

  Slammed it down again. Twist. Pull. Again.

  A tiny indentation began to form — not just a dent, but a true starting point for a hole.

  “You use your twisting method once there’s already a good start,” he said. “But the hole won’t be perfectly round at first. So, when you twist, your motion will shave off those uneven bits.”

  He rotated the blade a bit more, showing how the edges started chipping away. “Once it’s smooth and round, go back to my way — to deepen the hole. Then again, your way, to clean it up.”

  Vihaan nodded, eyes focused. “Got it.”

  His father smiled faintly. “Good. Now try it.”

  Vihaan took the knife, positioned it just like his father had, and mimicked the motion. His strikes were softer, less confident — but the hole began to grow. Bit by bit. It wasn’t perfect, but it was getting there.

  They worked like that for hours.

  Chop. Smooth. Drill. Swap.

  By the time the sun had begun to crawl overhead, they had finished shaping three planks — two of them complete with holes, the third halfway there.

  Vihaan was about to start carving into the third one when his father stopped him with a hand on the shoulder.

  “Time to take a break,” he said.

  Vihaan looked up, sweat beading along his brow, his hands dusted with shavings.

  A break sounded good.

  Their father looked around and noticed the pile of sticks and medium-sized logs stacked near the platform’s edge. A good amount had dried over the last couple of days, but some were still damp from floating too long.

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  “Son,” he said, turning to Vihaan, “can you lay those out in the sun? They’ll dry better that way.”

  Vihaan nodded and got to work, carefully dragging the pieces toward the balcony area where sunlight hit strongest. He laid them down in a neat row, spacing them just enough so the air could flow between them.

  Meanwhile, their father squinted against the light, placing a hand above his eyes. Off in the water, he spotted Arya — swimming, dragging another bundle of firewood behind him with a rope tied around his waist.

  A few minutes later, Arya reached the tree and climbed back onto the platform, soaked and breathing heavily. He dropped the bundle near the others with a dull thud and stretched his shoulders.

  “Good work,” their father said, giving him a pat on the back as he passed.

  “Oh, it hurts!” Arya winced dramatically, holding his side and stumbling a bit for effect. He grinned anyway and moved to place the new batch of wood beside Vihaan’s.

  “I’ll go make us some food,” their father said, wiping his hands. “You kids do your job.”

  And just like that, he turned toward the small kitchen space they’d set up in the corner, humming a faint tune as he went. There was a lightness in his step. For once, he looked… content.

  Vihaan stood beside Arya, still laying out the firewood. He looked over as their father busied himself with the pot and supplies.

  “He still has energy to cook?” Arya asked under his breath.

  Vihaan smirked. “Guess he’s built different.”

  Arya dropped a log and groaned. “Let's finish this so I eat and sleep like a log.”

  In that moment, under the soft sun and the sound of water brushing against wood, things almost felt normal.

  After finishing their tasks, the boys sat down, resting quietly as their father stirred the pot over the small fire. The scent of simmering spices and warm food wrapped around the platform like a soft blanket.

  A little while later, their father called them over. The food was ready.

  They ate in near silence, too tired to talk. The warmth of the meal hit their stomachs hard — the kind of food that slowed your limbs and made your eyes heavy. By the time they put their plates down, both Arya and Vihaan were fast asleep — like logs, sprawled out wherever they found space.

  Their father smiled faintly and pulled the blanket over them.

  The next day began the same.

  Vihaan and his father rose early and got to work. Arya groaned awake later, but joined in as usual. The sun passed above them, casting long shadows over the platform, then dipped into night again.

  And again.

  And again.

  Days slipped by — steady and repetitive, but not meaningless.

  By the fourth day, the platform looked like a workshop. Chopped logs, smoothed beams, and half-prepared planks were stacked in neat piles. The two bags of food sat protected in the corner, next to their cooking supplies and tools.

  Sometimes, when they had enough firewood stored, Arya joined in the chopping too. He wasn’t as precise as Vihaan, but he was stronger, faster — and his jokes kept things from getting too serious.

  On the fifth day, they chopped the last log.

  They had run out once midway, but Arya dove out again and came back with another bundle. By now, he didn’t even complain.

  And now… the logs were done. The planks were ready. Smooth, sturdy, with holes carved at both ends.

  All that was left was tying them together.

  That morning, after a simple breakfast of boiled potatoes and spiced flatbread, the three of them sat around the logs.

  No firewood needed that day. Arya had already stocked plenty the day before.

  Their father stood up, stretching his arms and cracking his neck.

  “For tying them,” he said, glancing between his sons, “I’ll need both of your help.”

  Arya raised an eyebrow. “What do we do?”

  Their father smiled. “Exactly what I say.”

  Vihaan picked up a coil of rope and nodded.

  It was time to bring everything together.

  Arya stretched his arms and looked at the logs. “I’ve got an idea for tying them,” he said, already sounding proud. “Why don’t we stack all the logs together and then just put the rope through every hole at once? Tie it all in one go. It’ll be easy and fast.”

  Their father didn’t even pause. “And it’s dumb.”

  Arya blinked. “Hey!”

  “If we stack and tie them all through the same hole,” their father continued, “it’ll throw off the balance every time we step on it. One shift, and the whole thing tips sideways.”

  “Aww,” Arya groaned, scratching the back of his head.

  “Now,” his father said, standing up and grabbing a coil of rope, “do as I say.”

  He walked over to the nearest log. “First, we take the rope and put it through the hole in one log. Then, we wrap the rope around the log and bring it back — loop it through the space between the hole and the wrapped part. That locks it tight. No sliding, no shifting.”

  Arya tilted his head. “Sounds… more complicated.”

  “Sounds safer,” Vihaan added, already holding the next log.

  “Exactly,” their father nodded. “Now, keep handing me logs. And hold them steady while I tie them.”

  One by one, they moved together — Vihaan placing logs, Arya helping to hold them down, and their father weaving the rope with practiced hands. The wood creaked softly as it came together, forming a wide and balanced base.

  By the time they reached the end, only two long, straight logs were left.

  “We’ll tie these across the others,” their father said, tapping both logs. “Lengthwise. One in the front, one in the back. It’ll keep everything tight and help balance the raft. Less chance of it sinking or tilting.”

  Arya looked down at their work, hands on his hips. “It’s starting to look like something.”

  Vihaan nodded. “It looks like hope.”

  Their father smiled — faint, but proud.

  And then they got back to work.

  “Now that our raft is ready,” their father said, brushing his palms off, “how about we all go for a ride?”

  Arya squinted at the raft. “How exactly are we going to paddle this thing?”

  “Vihaan,” their father called, “go get the paddle we made.”

  Vihaan nodded and disappeared into the corner of the platform, returning a moment later with a long wooden paddle. It was simple — roughly carved, slightly uneven — but solid. It would get the job done.

  “Okay,” their father continued, “grab a rope, our giloy straw… and some peanuts.”

  “Why peanuts?” Arya asked.

  “You don’t want to eat them?” their father asked back, raising an eyebrow.

  “…Yes, I do.”

  “Then get them. And bring the bag too.”

  After gathering all the essentials — the paddle, the bag, the giloy vine, and a handful of peanuts — the three of them stood at the edge of the platform. With careful coordination, they lifted the raft and slowly pushed it off the side.

  With a soft splash, it settled onto the water — perfectly balanced.

  They climbed aboard, one by one, placing their supplies in the center.

  “Alright!” their father said, pointing. “Now paddle.”

  Arya blinked. “Why me?”

  “Because,” his father smirked, “I need to save some energy. I’ll be going underwater.”

  Arya groaned but took up the paddle. He dipped it into the water and began rowing.

  Their father pointed into the distance. “There was a town this way… Used to be.”

  Arya turned the raft in that direction, gritting his teeth and rowing steadily.

  “Damn, you’re good at this,” their father said, nodding in approval.

  Arya grinned. “Told you. Born for greatness.”

  Their father reached into the bag and pulled out the peanuts. “Want some?”

  Arya gave a breathless nod. They passed the bag around, quietly munching on peanuts as the raft glided over the calm water.

  After a while, dark shapes appeared beneath them — rooftops, roads, fences. What used to be a town. Now silent. Buried under the water.

  “Alright,” their father said, standing up. “I’m going down. You two, keep watch.”

  He handed them the giloy vine and the rope, already looping the vine around his shoulder. Then, with a small smile, he turned and dropped backwards into the water — clean and smooth like a trained diver.

  So cool, Vihaan thought.

  They quickly tied the vine and rope to the raft’s side, then leaned over to keep watch.

  Far away, some bodies still floated — the same as before. Not many, but enough to make the air feel heavy.

  Below, their father swam deeper, remembering the streets of the town — turns he used to take, the little stores he’d visited. It was all still here. Just... underwater. The rooftops were mostly intact. The homes with wooden shingles were falling apart, but the rest stood tall.

  No struggle. No damage. Just a world drowned in silence.

  He moved slowly, carefully, until he found the general store. Inside, it was almost identical to the one in their own town — floating bags, sealed jars, things knocked over by the rising tide. He grabbed everything useful — biscuits, canned goods, old packets of snacks — and stuffed them into the bag.

  He stepped back outside, secured the rope to the bag, and was about to signal the boys.

  Then he froze.

  Something felt off.

  A prickling chill crept down his spine.

  He looked up.

  The clouds had darkened. Lightning flickered far above. Even through the clear water, he could see the waves changing.

  Storm.

  He felt the current pulling harder. The raft above — drifting.

  His heartbeat quickened.

  Above, Arya stood suddenly. “We need to go. A storm’s coming.”

  The wind was faster now. The water, restless. The clouds churning.

  “I’ll paddle us out!” Arya said, grabbing the paddle and digging into the water.

  Vihaan held the rope tight, eyes locked on the giloy vine.

  Below, their father swam harder — upward, against the tide. But the water was shifting, spinning, dragging him away.

  Then — the giloy vine slipped from his mouth.

  He reached for the rope. Missed.

  His legs kicked. Arms pulled.

  But the tide was stronger.

  His vision blurred. His thoughts slowed. His strength faded.

  The last thing he saw was the raft — distant now, barely visible through the darkening water.

  He could still see them in his mind — Arya’s laugh, Vihaan’s quiet nods. If this was the end… at least they were still safe. Maybe that was enough..

  And then everything went black.

  The sky had turned into a monster.

  Wind screamed around them, throwing the raft left and right like it was nothing but driftwood. Waves slammed against its sides, cold water spraying over the edges and soaking everything. Lightning forked through the clouds every few seconds, flashing the world in harsh, blinding white. Thunder followed like the sky was breaking in two.

  The raft groaned with every hit, but it still held.

  Vihaan clung to the wood, knuckles white, heart pounding. Rain beat against his face, mixing with saltwater and fear.

  “We can’t paddle away!” he shouted, barely hearing himself over the storm. “Dad is still underwater!”

  Arya didn’t answer.

  Vihaan scrambled toward the edge of the raft, slipping, gripping, forcing himself to look down.

  And there — between the dark water and bursts of lightning — he saw him.

  His father was still moving. Still swimming. Kicking up through the rising current with everything he had left in him. His arms strained forward, like he was trying to climb an invisible ladder toward the surface.

  But something was wrong.

  The giloy vine… it wasn’t in his mouth.

  Vihaan’s stomach dropped.

  “No… no, no, no...”

  Below, his father’s arms slowed. His legs stopped kicking.

  “Vihaan!” Arya yelled behind him, voice sharp. “We have to get out of here! The raft won’t hold!”

  But Vihaan didn’t hear him.

  All he could see was his father.

  Floating.

  Still.

  Mouth slightly open.

  Eyes half-lidded.

  His father wasn’t swimming anymore.

  “DAD!!” Vihaan screamed, his voice cracking, ripping itself from his chest.

  He reached out without thinking, like he could grab him — like shouting would pull him back up.

  And then—

  A monstrous wave rose behind them, black against black, taller than anything they’d seen before.

  Vihaan turned just in time to see it crash over the raft.

  There was no time to scream.

  No time to react.

  Just white.

  Then nothing.