The Ahir house, lit by rows of oil lamps and glowing chandeliers, seemed almost alive that night. The courtyard smelled faintly of sandalwood and roses, and the air carried a hush—as though the old walls themselves were holding their breath, adjusting to the return of the family it had once lost.
Avni stood at the entrance with her children, her fingers trailing over the carved wooden doors. The last time she had crossed this threshold, she was broken, cast out, and carrying a secret within her womb. Now, she returned with all six of her children, their heads high, their eyes burning with pride.
As they stepped in, a silence spread through the corridors. It wasn't emptiness—it was memory. Every wall, every corner seemed to whisper echoes of the past: the laughter of her children before they were torn away, her own muffled sobs when she was forced to leave, the heavy footsteps of Savita's reign.
But tonight, those echoes were softened by new voices. Aghav's children ran through the halls with Mukul's younger cousins, their laughter ringing like temple bells. Vivaan and Reyansh, still adjusting to the house that had almost forgotten them, walked hand in hand with Anika and Sasha, finding comfort in their presence.
Inside her old room—now polished and adorned as if waiting for her—Avni paused. The bed was dressed in white silk sheets, and fresh marigolds were placed at the window. She pressed her palm against the wall. "Do you remember me?" she whispered, half to the room, half to herself.
Mukul came beside her, slipping his hand into hers. "It remembers, Ma. But now, it will remember something else. Us. Together."
Later that evening, the family gathered in the inner courtyard. A gentle breeze rustled the trees, and lamps floated in the fountain like stars caught on water. It wasn't a grand feast this time—just a quiet dinner, close and intimate. They sat on the floor, in a circle, as Avni had always preferred when they were little.
"I feel like I'm dreaming," Anaya murmured, her eyes glistening as she leaned against her mother's shoulder.
"You're not," Aria replied, her smile tender. "This is real. We're finally where we belong."
Vivaan chuckled softly, glancing around. "I used to wonder if these halls even existed or if they were just stories. Now here I am, eating off its floor."
Reyansh grinned, nudging him. "And for once, no one's chasing us away."
The siblings laughed together, the sound warm and unrestrained. For years, they had lived with fragments of each other—names, whispers, pieces of memory. Now, under the same roof, those fragments fused into something whole.
When the meal ended, the family drifted into different corners of the house. Some walked through the garden, others climbed to the balcony to gaze at the moon. Avni, however, sat alone in the courtyard for a while, her eyes closed, feeling the pulse of the house around her.
Aghav found her there, placing a shawl gently over her shoulders. "It feels strange, doesn't it?" he asked.
"Yes," she whispered. "Like the house itself is asking for forgiveness."
He smiled faintly. "Or maybe it's just relieved to have its mother back."
Her eyes filled with tears again, but this time they were soft, cleansing. She reached out and clasped his hand. "We will make this house a home again—not with fear, not with power, but with love."
Later, as night deepened, the family gathered once more—this time in the prayer room. Avni lit a single diya, its flame steady, and placed it before the deity. "This light," she said, her voice breaking just slightly, "is for the past we cannot change… and for the future we will build together."
Her children stood around her, their faces glowing in the flame's golden light. And in that moment, the Ahir house—once tainted by division and silence—felt alive again. Not with ghosts, not with grief, but with laughter, forgiveness, and hope.
The first night had ended not in shadows, but in light.
And the walls, if they could speak, would have whispered the same word over and over—home.