There were no banners.
No coronations.
No songs.
Just wind moving freely through cities once held hostage by worship.
Just people—standing, sitting, planting, resting—not praying.
Just a world that no longer asked for permission to be whole.
Shraddhalok had no idols now.
But the banyan tree had grown tall, its roots curling through old marble.
Children played beneath it.
Meha taught without speaking.
Everyone learned.
Kaamyapur—once the city that asked too much—was quiet.
Not empty.
Centered.
Suryanagar's broken temples had become gardens.
People meditated where they once knelt.
They rose taller, not in ego—just in spine.
And Delhi?
It didn't change much.
But the smog lifted, just a little.
And for the first time in living memory,
someone listened to silence without flinching.
Aarav walked alone.
Not as a leader.
Not as a savior.
But as one who remembered.
He passed no temples.
But wherever he went, breath deepened.
People looked at him not with awe—
But with recognition.
The world no longer needed gods.
Because it had become something greater:
A world that breathes itself.