The living room glowed with soft lights and scattered laughter.
Streamers hung unevenly, some crooked, some hastily re-taped—evidence of chaos turned into celebration. Balloons rested against the walls, a few already half-deflated from the children's games. The cake waited untouched on the center table, holding its place of honor.
Yuvaan stood near the archway, unnoticed.
He didn't step in. He didn't interrupt.
He just watched.
In the middle of the room, Khushi was blindfolded, a strip of cloth tied loosely over her eyes. Her hands stretched forward, playful and cautious.
"Careful," a child giggled, darting past her.
"I heard that," Khushi said lightly. She turned the wrong way on purpose. "Someone is definitely cheating."
More laughter swelled around her.
Kiaan ran past, fast and free—not the furious boy from earlier, nor the child trembling with uncontrolled power. Just a child, completely unburdened.
"Angel aunty, you'll never catch me," he teased.
Khushi tilted her head as if listening. "Oh really?" she said softly. "That voice sounds very familiar."
She took two careful steps forward.
Yuvaan's breath caught.
Then she lunged—gently, precisely—and caught Kiaan by the wrist.
"I knew it," she laughed, pulling off the blindfold. "You always give yourself away."
Kiaan burst into laughter and threw his arms around her waist without hesitation.
"I told you she'd catch me!" he announced proudly, as though it were a victory, not a loss.
Something tightened in Yuvaan's chest.
For months—years—he had tried to bring that laugh back. Through discipline, distance, control. Through the fear of repeating his own darkness.
And here it was.
Alive.
Unforced.
He noticed how Khushi bent to Kiaan's level, how she didn't pull away from the hug, how her hand rested lightly on his back—protective, natural, unstudied.
Not rehearsed.
Not strategic.
Bhoomi watched from the sofa, eyes glistening, a quiet smile on her lips. Beside her, Susheela stood with folded hands, her posture softened by relief.
A miracle happened, Bhoomi had said.
Yuvaan hadn't believed in miracles for a long time.
Yet as he watched his son laugh freely—surrounded by noise and warmth and a woman who had walked unannounced into their lives—he wondered.
Not about Khushi.
But about himself.
About how much pain a heart could carry before it mistook protection for punishment.
Khushi looked up then.
Their eyes met.
Just for a moment.
Her smile faded—not completely, but enough. She straightened slightly, awareness flickering across her face. Respect. Caution. No challenge this time.
Yuvaan didn't look away.
He didn't scold.
He didn't smile either.
But something in his stance shifted—subtle, almost imperceptible.
For the first time since Kiara's death, the living room felt… alive.
And Yuvaan Pratap Singh stood at its edge, unsure whether he was ready to step back in.
Khushi noticed him from the corner of her eye.
He stood apart from the celebration, near the doorway, hands in his pockets. His shoulders were tense, like a man unsure if he was permitted to belong to the happiness unfolding before him.
She watched him a moment too long.
Then, quietly, she slipped away from the circle of children, the laughter continuing behind her. She stopped a few steps from Yuvaan and cleared her throat—deliberately, even a little dramatically.
"You are not invited," she said, her tone calm but pointed. "So please leave."
Yuvaan blinked, caught off guard. "Excuse me?" he said slowly. "First, this is my house. Second, that is my son. It's his birthday."
Khushi didn't flinch. She folded her arms loosely, meeting his gaze.
"Exactly, Mr. Yuvaan," she replied. "It's your son's birthday. So why are you standing here like a guest? You should be making this the most memorable day of his life."
The words landed softly, but firmly.
Yuvaan's jaw tightened. His eyes drifted toward the living room—toward Kiaan, who was laughing breathlessly as he chased a friend around the table.
He swallowed. "The only memory he'll carry from me," Yuvaan said, his voice quiet with regret, "is my scolding."
There was no anger in his voice this time. Only a raw, hollow truth.
Khushi's expression softened. She took a small step closer, her voice lowering to a near-whisper.
"Then let's change that memory. Give him a new one to keep."
Yuvaan looked at her—truly looked. There was no accusation in her eyes, no judgment. Just a quiet certainty, as if she believed this was still possible. As if it wasn't already too late.
Their gazes held.
The noise of the party blurred—the chatter, the music, the rustle of balloons. For a stretched second, it was just the two of them, standing between a broken past and the fragile chance to mend it.
Yuvaan's breath hitched, almost imperceptibly.
For the first time that day, he hesitated.
To be continued…