Next Saturday, footsteps thumped up the stairs before Vivaan could call. Papa pushed open the roof door with his shoulder, a metal watering can in one hand and a bucket sloshing in the other. “Water first this time,” he said, a little breathless.

Vivaan stared at the shining drops on the rim. “You remembered?”

Papa smiled behind his glasses. “I said I would.” Something small and tight inside Vivaan softened, like dry soil drinking rain.