The cricket ball was red and scuffed and it was Aarav's. He knew it was his because he had wrapped black electrical tape around the seam three weeks ago when the stitching came loose. But Lakshmi was holding it.

"That's mine," he said.

His sister sat cross-legged on the courtyard wall, tossing the ball from hand to hand, watching the evening sky turn pink over the rooftops of Puri. "I found it under the cot. Finders keepers."

"It was under the cot because I put it there. Give it back."

"Make me."

The anger came fast. It always did with Lakshmi — she knew exactly which words to use, which tone, which sideways smile. Aarav felt it rise through his chest like hot water filling a glass, pushing sharp words to the edge of his tongue — the kind that leave marks.

His mouth opened.

And then — he stopped.

It wasn't dramatic. No flash of light, no thunderclap of wisdom. He just didn't say the thing. Instead, he breathed. One breath. Then he started counting. One. Two. Three. The anger was still there, hot and tight behind his ribs, but it wasn't driving anymore. He was holding the reins.

Four. Five. Six.

The words that had been ready to launch — "You always take my stuff" and worse — were still circling like wasps. But he didn't open the window.

Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

He exhaled. The hot water didn't cool completely, but it stopped rising. Warm and present, but no longer in charge.

"You can borrow it," he said. His voice sounded strange — calmer than he felt. "But it's mine, and I want it back tomorrow."

Lakshmi looked at him. Really looked — eyebrows up, the tossing stopped. Then something shifted in her face.

"Fine," she said, and tossed the ball back. "I only wanted to see what you'd do."

She hopped off the wall and went inside.

Aarav stood in the courtyard, heart still thumping. He didn't feel victorious. He felt like someone who had stopped a bicycle at the edge of a cliff — shaky, but still upright.

Dadu appeared in the doorway. He had been watching — of course he had. He leaned against the frame and said nothing for a long moment. Then: "That pause."

Aarav looked up.

"That pause you just took — between the feeling and the doing. Most people never find it. They think the anger IS the action. But you found the gap." Dadu tapped his temple. "The senses brought the anger in. The mind caught fire. But you — the real you — said 'wait.' That is the beginning of everything, boy."

Aarav turned the ball over in his hands. The black tape. The scuffed leather. Such a small thing to nearly lose yourself over.

"It's still hard," he said.

"Of course it's hard. That's why it matters."