The hall glowed softly under the fairy lights that wound along the ceiling, casting gentle shadows across the walls. A faint, comforting scent of food lingered in the air, grounding the space in a lived-in warmth.
Aarav and Karan lounged on the couch, arms draped casually over the backrest, their eyes scanning for the others. Beside them, Arun sat with a quiet unease, still adjusting to the new, gentle warmth that seemed to fill the room.
The low hum of conversation mingled with the occasional clink of cutlery from the kitchen, filling the hall with a cozy, everyday-life rhythm.
Karan raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. "Nervous to be in your in-laws' house for the first time?"
Arun's brow furrowed, a crease forming above his nose. "Um… huh?" His voice was soft, embarrassed, as if he hadn't expected others to notice.
Aarav leaned back, letting out a soft laugh, amusement flickering in his gaze.
Karan leaned forward slightly, the fairy lights catching the corner of his grin. "It's normal. I felt the same when I first came here."
Arun tilted his head, curiosity sharpening his tone. "What do you mean by that?" A subtle tremor ran through his voice, betraying a hint of tension beneath his words.
Before Karan could answer, Aarav's lazy grin widened. "Don't forget—you lure my brothers with sweets for that."
Karan's cheeks warmed, a mix of pride and embarrassment, and he rubbed the back of his neck. "Of course. I can't beat your brother complex alone."
Arun's eyes narrowed slightly, flicking between them like shadows in the dim light. His gaze was firmer, carrying a weight beyond casual curiosity.
At that moment, Abhi appeared from the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, eyes bright and amused as he took in the group. "Let's go. Everything's ready."
Arun's gaze shifted to Abhi, a quiet warmth threading through the lingering tension.
…
After dinner—
The last of the plates clinked into the sink. Karan, Vihan, Ayan, and Aarav moved in quiet rhythm—stacking dishes, drying cutlery, nudging elbows as if they'd been doing this forever. But beneath the clatter of water and porcelain, their ears tilted toward the sitting room, where silence had begun to settle like dusk.
There, Abhi and Arun still sat beside Mrs. Rawat. She was poised, hands folded in her lap, gaze calm and watchful—not questioning, as if she had seen this moment walking toward her long before it arrived.
Beneath the table, Abhi's fingers brushed against Arun's—seeking steadiness. Arun's hand answered, a gentle press in return.
Abhi inhaled slowly. "Maa..." he began, voice steady but low, "there's something we wanted to tell you."
Mrs. Rawat turned to him, eyes soft as fresh linen. "I'm listening."
For a moment, neither spoke. Light caught in Arun's eyes—nervous, yet unflinching.
A hush thickened the air. Abhi swallowed, throat bobbing. "Arun and I… we're together."
Arun nodded quickly, voice edged with urgency. "I'll take care of him, Aunty… I promise."
A fork clattered in the kitchen. A chair scraped back.
Four figures appeared at the edge of the hallway—Karan with raised brows, Vihan frozen mid-wipe with a dish towel, Aarav frowning faintly, and Ayan watching with cautious curiosity.
Mrs. Rawat didn't move for a moment. Then, slowly, her lips curved into a small, knowing smile.
"Well," she said gently, "okay, I believe your words."
Abhi blinked, caught between relief and disbelief. "Huh? ...Just like that?"
Arun looked straight at Mrs. Rawat, puzzled.
Abhi groaned, sinking a little into his chair. "I spent all day rehearsing what to say and how to say it."
Mrs. Rawat chuckled, a soft warmth lighting her eyes. "Are you disappointed that I agreed?"
A quiet laugh slipped out of Arun, shy but soft, as Abhi turned crimson.
The others watched from the hallway, quietly amused by Abhi's fluster and Arun's gentle teasing, smiles softening the room's tension.
Then Mrs. Rawat's gaze softened, glancing around at the others who were quietly watching from the kitchen door. "I'm just… happy," she said, her voice tender, "that our families are back together again. All of you, here, safe, and smiling—that's what matters most."
The hall was quiet again, but now it felt lighter—the fairy lights catching on the edges of three small, unguarded smiles.
…
[Elsewhere that night]
The sky was bruised with memory—dusky grey, streaked with gold that hadn't yet surrendered to night. The breeze softened into something almost human: quiet, familiar, full of things unsaid.
Mr. Singh walked toward the old stone bridge, hands in his coat pockets, collar turned up out of habit. Each step echoed heavily on the weathered path.
He didn't know why he'd come. The bridge had lived in the backdrop of his youth. Now, after everything, his feet brought him here again.
It came into view—arched gently over the valley, wildflowers clutching its edges, rust biting its rails. Same cracks, same silence. Only time had changed.
Then he stopped. Someone was already there.
At the far end stood a figure, camera in hand, back straight, still against the city lights glimmering below.
Mr. Rawat. Older now. Quieter. The same sharp profile, softened by years. He hadn't moved.
Mr. Singh froze. His breath caught. It felt like stepping into a memory. He wanted to speak—Mr. Rawat's name, maybe nothing at all—but no words came. So he walked. Careful. Slow. As if the air might shatter.
When he reached the other side, Mr. Rawat's voice broke the silence: "I thought you wouldn't come again."
Not an accusation. Just a conversation waiting years to resume.
They stood side by side. Same height. Same wind brushing their sleeves. No words, just the hush of breath and memory.
Mr. Singh finally found his voice. "You still come here?"
Mr. Rawat's gaze stayed on the city. "Not often. Only when I miss this place."
The words landed sharply. Mr. Singh swallowed. "I thought you'd never want to see me. Not after… blaming you for everything."
Mr. Rawat turned slightly, a half-smile tugging but not reaching his lips. "You've always been all impulsive. No room for brain. I knew that—even then."
Mr. Singh gave a hollow breath, half laugh, half ache. "I ruined everything, didn't I?"
For the first time, Mr. Rawat met his eyes. No anger. Just understanding. Something older than forgiveness.
"You were scared. So was I. We just wore it differently."
A breeze slipped between them, carrying ghosts of old voices. Mr. Singh reached into his pocket, pulled out a worn photograph. He looked once, then handed it over.
Mr. Rawat took it carefully. A younger Mr. Singh stared back—half-shy, half-defiant, eyes lit with something unnamed but real.
Mr. Rawat's thumb brushed the image. "Your eyes never stopped showing your heart."
Mr. Singh nodded quietly, as if confirming what only they knew.
Mr. Rawat tucked the photo away, then lifted the same old camera from his hand. Mr. Singh flinched but didn't stop him.
Click. The shutter whispered its soft note. "Back then, you smiled wide. Like you believed in something," Mr. Rawat murmured.
Mr. Singh's lips curved faintly. "Smile for you now and you might fall in love."
A pause. Then Mr. Rawat chuckled, low, amused. "Isn't it too late to cross that line?"
They laughed softly, until the sound faded into something warmer, unspoken. Mr. Singh's fingers brushed the railing, shifting closer.
Mr. Rawat's hand was already there. Their fingertips met—accidental, lingering. Neither pulled away. Not a hold. Just a touch. Like a memory that never left.
Mr. Singh exhaled, as if finally deciding to open his heart again. "It's not that late, maybe."
Mr. Rawat turned his gaze toward him. He couldn't understand what he actually meant—or maybe he did, but couldn't believe it.
They stayed like that. Not seeking closure. Not explaining. Because some bonds aren't born of confessions, but of glances held too long, and sunsets quietly survived together. They ask for nothing—yet hold everything.