The air on the Haveli’s terrace was sweet with the scent of wet earth and night-blooming jasmine. For the first time in five years, the heavy, suffocating mantle of responsibility seemed to lift from Nandini’s shoulders. The soft, rhythmic tinkle of her reclaimed anklets felt like a heart beating in sync with her own.

She looked at Arjun, who was leaning against the stone balustrade, his silhouette sharp against the moonlight. The "Stone King" looked less like a monument tonight and more like a man—a man who had spent hours in a freezing river just to find a piece of her history.