The river had forgotten its banks.
It roared through the concrete channel like something alive, white and furious, swallowing sound and sense alike. Everyone else had run when the alarms screamed—everyone except Arun.
He stood ankle-deep on a narrow ledge, the ground crumbling beneath him, the flood clawing at his boots. One slip and the water would take him, grind him into silence against the walls.
Above him, the excavator groaned.
Its arm stretched out slowly, deliberately, as if the machine itself understood fear. Metal joints whined. The bucket dipped toward him, heavy and scarred from years of digging earth, now reaching for a man instead.
Arun jumped.
For a breathless moment, his fingers missed. The river surged higher, cold and final.
Then—steel.
He caught the edge of the bucket, knuckles screaming as his weight pulled against it. The excavator operator held steady, fighting the current, trusting hydraulics and instinct. The machine trembled but did not yield.
Water slammed against Arun’s legs, trying to pry him loose. He refused. He held on as if the bucket were the last solid thing left in the world—because it was.
Slowly, impossibly, the arm lifted.
When Arun was finally dragged back to safety, soaked and shaking, he pressed his forehead against the cold metal in silent thanks. The excavator stood there, unmoving, streaked with mud and water—just a machine to most.
But to Arun, it was the hand that reached back when the world let go.