You wrote with real restraint here, and it pays off. The “hardest bulb” being your own shadow is a brave opening, then you stay consistent, you keep returning to roots, cracks, sap, the slow work under the surface. Nothing feels forced or performative.

I love how the sensory details do the emotional lifting: saffron light, mustard bloom, veena string, kites cutting blue. It reads like someone noticing their way back to themselves, not someone trying to “sound poetic.” And the honesty in the last third, unlearning sharp edges, learning tenderness where caution lived, feels earned.

Also, the pacing works. It moves like spring actually moves: gradual, almost sneaky, then suddenly you realize you’re warmer.