The breakfast table was alive with warmth and laughter, the morning sun streaming through the large windows, casting golden patterns on the white tablecloth. Inside, the air was filled with the scent of fresh parathas , hot chai , and the lingering sweetness of gulab jamuns that still coated everyone's tongues.

Plates were being passed, cups of chai were being refilled, and the conversation flowed easily, the way it did in families that had weathered storms together and come out stronger on the other side. Reyansh was telling a story about his college days — something about a failed prank and a very angry professor — and Vikrant was laughing so hard that tears were streaming down his face. Even Anita was smiling, a small, quiet smile that seemed to soften her entire face.