Nikumbh then pulled out a book of poetry—in Portuguese. He pointed to a line: “As estrelas não sabem que são estrelas.” (The stars don’t know they are stars.)

New Dawn Boarding School was a gray fortress. The beds were hard, the food was cold, and the boys were cruel. The Portuguese dub captured the hollow echo of the hallways: “Atenção, alunos. Silêncio.” (Attention, students. Silence.)

Nikumbh takes the painting and turns it to face the audience. On the back, in shaky, newly-learned script, Ishaan has written one sentence in Portuguese:

“This,” he said, his Portuguese voice gentle but firm, “is a caterpillar. Everyone calls it slow. Ugly. Lost. But the caterpillar knows a secret the butterfly forgets: it sees a different world. A world where the ground is the sky.”

Nikumbh didn’t praise it. He froze.

Ishaan stood before a blank, massive canvas. For two hours, he didn’t move. The world held its breath. Then, like a dam breaking, he started.