#𝟏 𝐢𝐧 "𝐑𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐭𝐨𝐧 𝐤𝐢 𝐋𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐧" 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬
ׂ╰┈➤𝐀𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐡𝐢 𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐚 𝐱 𝐀𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐲𝐚 𝐆𝐨𝐞𝐧𝐤𝐚⋆˙⟡
"She endured the pain of her family's neglect, yearning for the love and care that always seemed just out of reach. He, on t...
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|AUTHOR'S POV|
At Sharma House
It was Diwali week, the air inside Sharma House shimmered with a festive kind of chaos. Naina’s voice echoed through the halls, quick and commanding.
“Ramesh, make sure the brass lamps shine properly! And someone tell Madhuri not to burn the laddoos this time!”
Servants hurried across the marble floor, carrying trays of sweets, garlands, and diyas. The scent of jasmine mingled with ghee and the faint crackle of diyas being tested near the veranda.
Amid all that bustle, Dev sat on the sofa with his reading glasses perched low, newspaper spread open, pretending to be deeply engrossed while clearly keeping an eye on everything. The door creaked softly.
Aarohi stepped in quietly, dressed in a soft peach suit, her dupatta slipping slightly over her shoulder. The faint chill of evening followed her in. For a moment, she simply stood there, taking in the sight of her home, unchanged yet different.
“Mom… Dad,” she said, her voice breaking through the hum of activity.
Naina froze mid-command, turning toward the doorway. Dev lowered his newspaper, disbelief flickering before his expression softened. They both moved toward her, slow but certain, as if afraid she’d disappear if they rushed.
A small smile curved on Dev’s lips as he reached her first, his hand rising to gently caress her hair.
“Almost a year later… finally you’re home,” he murmured.
Naina stepped in next, wrapping Aarohi in a long, tight embrace. The kind that said everything words couldn’t.
Aarohi’s eyes trailed across the familiar living room, now glowing under strings of fairy lights and rows of diyas flickering against freshly painted walls.
“So, are you guys done with your Diwali preparation?” she asked curiously, looking around the house that somehow felt both the same and different after a year.
“Almost,” Naina replied with a soft smile, leading her further inside.
As they walked in, Aarohi’s gaze landed on something near the corner, an old wooden trunk, its brass edges dulled with age. A fine layer of dust rested on the surface, but what caught her attention was the name engraved on top in elegant, fading letters: Kamal Sharma.
Her steps slowed. “Is… is it Dadu’s belonging?” she asked hesitantly, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Yes,” Dev said quietly, his tone neutral but with something unspoken beneath it.
Drawn by instinct, Aarohi knelt beside the trunk and lifted its creaky lid. A faint scent of sandalwood and time-worn paper filled the air memories sealed away for years.
