Later That Night…
The celebration was fading. The house had returned to its quiet, grand self. But in the courtyard, lanterns still glowed faintly. The echoes of laughter and music still lingered in corners, like the afterglow of a dream not ready to end.
In the long hallway, beneath the ancestral portraits that lined the walls—stoic faces cast in sepia and silver—there now stood something new.
A photograph, framed in rich walnut, perfectly matched the others in form, yet breathed with the vibrancy of the present.
Mehendi.
Captured in a candid moment earlier that day—eyes alight, hair still dusted with Holi's bright colors, laughter frozen mid-bloom—she stood among the dead, radiant with life.
It was Abhimaan who had chosen the photo. Ordered the frame. He hadn't said a word while doing it—just sent the image off, gave precise instructions, and waited. When it arrived, he placed one frame in the hallway, beside the generations that came before, and the other… in his father's room.
The old man had been alone in the study when Abhimaan walked in, carrying the second frame.
He placed it carefully on the old side table near the window, where the light from the brass lamp danced gently across the glass. Mehendi's face caught the glow—alive, laughing, eternal.
The old man didn't speak at first. He simply stared.
Then, slowly, he leaned forward, eyes tracing every line of her face.
"She's Sugand's, no doubt," he murmured. "But she carries more than just her mother's fire."
Abhimaan stood beside him, arms crossed lightly. "She has your eyes," he said. "That same quiet defiance."
The old man's lips twitched—almost a smile. "And she'll need it."
A silence stretched between them. This time, it wasn't heavy with secrets. It was thick with something rarer: recognition. Acceptance. Quiet joy.
"A granddaughter," the old man said finally.
Abhimaan nodded, his voice soft. "And for me… a niece."
The weight of the moment pressed gently down on them—not as a burden, but as something sacred.
"She came back to us," the old man said, almost to himself. "Even without knowing where she came from… she found her way here."
Abhimaan's voice was steady. "Maybe that's what fate looks like."
The old man reached out, fingers trembling slightly, and straightened the frame by just a hair.
For the briefest moment, the strategist vanished.
And in his place stood only a grandfather—aching, grateful.
Yet even in that warmth, something else lingered. A shadow.
Because for all they had found… one still remained lost.
The ache for the daughter they couldn't reach—the one hiding behind another girl's name—tightened silently in both their chests.
But for tonight, they allowed themselves this fragile peace.
They had a granddaughter. A niece.
And they would honor that gift with what little softness remained in them.
Still, beneath the reunion's glow… the legacy of secrets breathed quietly.