Meanwhile, at the Pratap Singh Villa…
Soft footsteps echoed down the staircase.
Conversations faltered. Hands paused mid-air. Even the restless house seemed to hold its breath.
Khushi appeared first—calm, warm, her presence gentle yet unmistakable. Beside her was Kiaan, his small hand wrapped tightly around hers, as if afraid that letting go might undo whatever courage he had gathered upstairs.
For a heartbeat, no one spoke.
Then Kiaan slipped free and ran forward.
"Dadi… Badi Dadi…"
His voice broke.
Bhoomi barely had time to bend before Kiaan threw himself into her arms. Susheela joined them instantly, the three forming a tight, trembling knot of emotion. Kiaan clutched their sarees, his forehead pressed against Bhoomi's chest.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I ruined everything."
Bhoomi's eyes filled instantly. She cupped his face, kissing his hair again and again, tears slipping free despite herself. "Oh, my child… birthdays come and go. You matter. That's all."
Susheela hugged him from behind, her own voice unsteady. "We were never angry with you, beta. Never."
The room softened.
Something heavy—long carried—lifted just a little.
Khushi watched quietly, her eyes shining, then cleared her throat lightly. "Alright," she said, forcing a playful tone, "are we planning to continue crying all day, or should we actually decorate the house for the birthday boy?"
A beat.
Then a smile.
Then another.
Aakash chuckled softly. Vinod clapped his hands once. Someone laughed—tentative at first, then freer.
"Yes," Bhoomi said, wiping her tears, still holding Kiaan close. "She's right. We have work to do."
Excitement slowly returned, cautious but genuine. People began moving again—picking up streamers, lifting boxes, straightening fallen decorations. The house stirred back to life.
Everyone joined in.
Everyone—except Meera.
She stood still, arms folded, her face tight with something unreadable. The joy around her seemed to irritate rather than soothe.
Aakash noticed.
He walked over quietly, leaning in just enough that only she could hear him. His voice was low, sharp—not loud, but precise.
"Why don't you go," he said coolly, "and take care of your precious sister instead?"
Meera stiffened.
Before she could respond, Aakash turned away, already reaching for a string of lights, leaving her standing there—alone, silent, and unsettled—while laughter and preparations continued without her.
At the center of it all, Kiaan stood between Bhoomi and Susheela, holding Khushi's hand again.
For the first time that day, the house felt like it wanted to celebrate.
Soon, the villa no longer resembled the battlefield it had been.
Fairy lights twinkled softly along the walls, ribbons fluttered in the afternoon breeze, and colorful balloons bobbed near the ceiling like quiet promises of joy. Laughter—real, unguarded laughter—filled the space where silence and rage had ruled just hours ago.
Children from the neighboring houses crowded the garden and hallways, their voices overlapping, feet thudding, happiness spilling freely. Kiaan ran among them, breathless and glowing, his earlier fury replaced by something lighter, almost childlike again.
Khushi moved through the room with an ease that felt natural, as if she belonged there.
She carefully placed the cake at the center of the table, adjusting it slightly, making sure it faced the right way. Her dupatta slipped from her shoulder as she turned—and moments later, she was laughing, caught in a game of tag, letting the children chase her as if she were one of them.
At that exact moment, the front door opened.
Yuvaan stepped inside.
He stopped.
The noise hit him first. Laughter. Music. The unmistakable sound of celebration. His eyes swept across the decorated villa, the children running freely, the lights—intact, glowing.
Confusion crossed his face.
This was not the house he had left.
Bhoomi noticed him and walked over, her expression gentle but firm.
"What… is all this?" Yuvaan asked slowly. "When I left, everything was destroyed. And that big champ over there—" he glanced toward Kiaan, who was laughing breathlessly with his friends, "—was burning like lava."
Bhoomi smiled, a tired but hopeful smile. "A miracle happened."
She lifted her hand and pointed.
Yuvaan followed her gaze.
Khushi.
She was laughing as she ran, slowing deliberately so a smaller child could catch her, clapping dramatically when she was finally tagged. There was no fear in her movements. No hesitation. Only warmth.
Yuvaan stared.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
And somewhere deep within him, something he had locked away—long before anger, long before grief—stirred, uneasy and unfamiliar.
The party continued around him.
But for Yuvaan Pratap Singh, time had quietly paused.
To be continued…