The old haveli wing smelled of dust, aged teak, and forgotten monsoon dampness. The corridor leading to the storeroom was narrow, lit only by weak morning light filtering through cracked jharokhas. Cobwebs draped the corners like forgotten veils; the air felt thick, heavy with secrets older than the three generations sleeping in the main farmhouse.

Simran walked in the middle—flanked by Karan on her right, Arjun on her left, Sukhvinder leading with the calm, unhurried stride of someone who had walked these halls since childhood. They had showered quickly, dressed in the simplest clothes they could find: Simran in a plain cotton salwar-kameez (no bra, no panties—Mummy-ji’s quiet order), the thin fabric already clinging to her still-sensitive skin; the men in loose kurtas and pajamas; Sukhvinder in another plain saree, pallu tucked neatly.