The grown-ups' whispers and heavy silences didn't reach the little ones the same way. To the children, Raichand Villa had transformed into a wonderland. Its courtyards echoed with laughter, corridors became racing tracks, and the garden—lit by strings of lanterns—felt like a magical kingdom waiting to be claimed.
Elara, Aghav's eldest daughter, gathered the younger ones in the garden. She stood tall, her long braid swinging like a banner of authority. "Tonight," she declared with the solemnity only a child could muster, "we are one army. No more Raichands, no more Ahirs—only us."
Kael, mischievous as always, puffed out his chest. "Then I'll be the general!"
Mukul's niece, little Aarohi, giggled. "No! You're too bossy. I say Elara should lead. She's fair."
The debate might have gone on, but Lyric, with her gentle voice, settled it: "We don't need generals. We need a circle—where everyone is equal." She took Soren's hand, then Mira's, then pulled the others closer until the children stood in a ring under the lantern glow.
From the veranda, Mukul's fiancées watched with soft smiles, whispering to each other about how quickly children understood what adults struggled to learn.
The circle of hands tightened. "This is our promise," Elara said, her young voice clear. "No matter what the elders fear or fight about, we won't let it touch us. We'll always stand together."
A hush fell over them, as if even the night breeze had paused to listen. Then, Kael—unable to stay serious too long—let out a loud "Roar!" pretending to be a lion. The others collapsed into laughter, the circle breaking into a tumble of limbs and joy.
But beneath the laughter was something real, something strong. Children didn't carry the weight of Savita's shadows, nor did they care for old grudges. To them, unity wasn't a lesson—it was natural.
Later, as the feast wound down and stars deepened in the sky, the children crowded around Avni. She sat on the garden swing, her sari rustling softly as she cradled two little ones on her lap.
"Dadi," Mira asked, her eyes wide, "why were the uncles and aunties so serious upstairs? Were they angry?"
Avni paused. Her children had shielded her from pain for so long, but here were these bright faces demanding honesty. She bent forward, her voice gentle. "Not angry, beti. Just… remembering old hurts. Sometimes grown hearts get heavy. But tonight, you showed us something precious."
"What's that?" Soren asked, tugging at her dupatta.
"That you know how to be one family, even when history tries to say otherwise," Avni said, her eyes glistening. "You remind us what we're fighting for—not against."
The children leaned into her, heads resting against her arms and shoulders. In that quiet, Avni felt a weight lift—proof that the next generation would not carry the scars of the last.
From the terrace above, the siblings watched. Mukul's gaze lingered on the scene, a small smile tugging at his lips. Aghav's hand rested on the railing, pride softening his usually stern face.
"Do you see it?" Aria whispered. "They're already building what we're still trying to rebuild."
Mukul nodded. "That's why Savita's shadow can never win. Because in their world, she doesn't exist."
And in that moment, the fears of the elders seemed smaller, the light of tomorrow brighter.