The Haveli library was a tomb of silence, save for the rhythmic, ominous tapping of Aravind Rathode’s cane against the mahogany floorboards. Outside, the twilight cast long, skeletal shadows across the courtyard, but inside, the darkness was absolute.
Arjun stood before his father, the Diary—the physical manifestation of twelve years of lies—resting on the desk between them.




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