Manik: "Life doesn't come with choices; it comes with responsibilities. You live it on your terms or get buried under someone else's."
Nandini: "Love is a word people use too lightly, a hollow promise made to be broken. I've never believed in it, an...
Coming home doesn’t always mean finding peace. Sometimes, it means confronting the ghosts you left behind.
The moment I stepped out of the car and onto the driveway, the overwhelming familiarity of the house hit me like a wave. The sprawling garden in front of the mansion was immaculately maintained, each flowerbed bursting with vibrant colors. The pathways were lined with the same stone tiles I used to hop on as a child, pretending they were stepping stones in a river. My laughter from those carefree days echoed in my mind as if it were only yesterday.
I took a deep breath, feeling the tug of bittersweet memories threatening to pull me under. This place… it used to be home. But now? Now, it was just a house—beautiful, yes, but cold and distant. A shell of what it once was to me.
I let my eyes wander, taking in the details of the façade, the little fountain in the garden, and the bench where I used to sit with Bhai after school, eating the snacks Mom had prepared for us. I felt a lump in my throat, but I quickly swallowed it down. No tears, Nandini. Not today.
Lost in thought, I didn’t hear the footsteps behind me until I was suddenly engulfed in a tight hug. My heart skipped a beat in surprise, and I froze for a moment. But then, the familiar warmth and scent hit me. My Elder Brother Rudraksh Murthy. Hard on the outside but Soft on the inside.
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"Bhai," I whispered, feeling my own arms move automatically to hug him back.
He was sobbing, actually sobbing, and I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. "Stop crying like a baby, bhai," I teased, though my voice was softer than usual.
He pulled back slightly but kept his hands on my shoulders. His eyes were red-rimmed, his expression a mix of relief and sorrow. "It’s been two years, Nandu," he said, his voice cracking. "Do you have any idea how much I’ve missed you?"
I felt a pang in my chest. It had been two years since we’d last seen each other, even though he used to visit me occasionally in New York. But his responsibilities had kept him from coming.
"Stop being dramatic, bhai," I said, wiping the tears from his cheeks with my thumb. "I’m here now, aren’t I? Now let’s go inside before Mr. Hitler starts complaining."
A small, amused smile tugged at his lips, and he nodded. Just as we turned toward the house, a voice stopped us in our tracks.
"Wait," came a firm yet gentle voice. I turned and Mrs. Swarna Murthy, my mom, approached us, a small aarti thali in her hands. My jaw clenched instinctively, and I felt my defenses rising.
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