The fan in the living room stopped working again.

  It made a dry clicking sound and froze in the middle of a turn.

  "Leave it," his mother called from the kitchen. "We'll call someone this time."

  Karan was already dragging a chair under it.

  "Calling someone costs more than fixing it," he said.

  "That's not your problem."

  "It becomes my problem when you say that."

  His sister stood nearby, watching him with her arms crossed.

  "You're going to electrocute yourself one day," she said.

  "I know which wire not to touch."

  "You said that about the mixer too."

  "And I was right."

  He climbed onto the chair and opened the small panel.

  Dust fell into his hair and eyes. He blinked but didn't stop.

  The wiring inside looked cheap. Thin. Poorly wrapped.

  He tightened a loose screw and adjusted the connection.

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  The fan jerked once.

  Then again.

  Then it started spinning.

  Slowly at first.

  Then normally.

  "There," he said, stepping down carefully.

  His mother came out of the kitchen and looked up at it.

  "You don't have to fix everything," she said quietly.

  He shrugged.

  "If I don't, who will?"

  The words came out casually.

  Too casually.

  His sister noticed.

  She always noticed.

  He coughed once and turned away quickly.

  It wasn't loud.

  But it wasn't small either.

  "You okay?" she asked.

  "Dust," he replied.

  "You always say that."

  "Because it's true."

  She didn't argue.

  But she didn't believe him either.

  On the table near the sofa lay two things.

  An electricity bill.

  And a folded hospital report.

  Karan walked past them and picked up the report first.

  His mother watched him.

  "The doctor said it's stable," she said.

  "I know."

  "We'll go next week again."

  "I can go alone."

  "No."

  The answer came immediately.

  He didn't push.

  He didn't want to.

  His sister sat down and looked at him directly.

  "You hate hospitals."

  "I hate waiting," he corrected.

  "You hate feeling weak."

  He smiled.

  "I'm not weak."

  She held his gaze for a moment longer than usual.

  Then she looked away first.

  That felt like losing.

  Later that night, when the house was quiet, Karan lay awake staring at the ceiling fan he had fixed.

  It spun steadily.

  Reliable.

  He liked things that could be fixed.

  He didn't like things that depended on luck.

  His chest felt tight.

  Not enough to panic.

  Just enough to remind him.

  He reached for his phone.

  A hospital appointment reminder blinked on the screen.

  He stared at it for a long time.

  Then he turned it off.

  From the other side of the thin wall, he could hear his mother coughing in her sleep.

  His sister's door creaked softly as she turned.

  He closed his eyes for a moment.

  Then opened them again.

  The fan above him was still spinning.

  Steady.

  Reliable.

  Something he had fixed with his own hands.

  He watched it.

  Counted the rotations without meaning to.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  "I'm fine," he whispered into the dark.

  He kept watching the fan spin.

  He kept watching it until he fell asleep.