The day had unfolded with a cautious intensity, each moment stretching out like a soft, lingering chord—both beautiful and heavy with unspoken emotions. In the hours following the cold morning, the once-muted corridors of the Oberoi mansion now pulsed with the quiet rhythm of introspection. Family members moved with measured steps, their smiles polite but their eyes betraying the inner struggles that still lingered.

Nayra, still grappling with the chill of yesterday’s awakening, found herself wandering through the quiet garden once more. The earlier hues of muted marigold and jasmine now appeared as gentle reminders of what had been lost and what still yearned to be reclaimed. As she sat on a weathered stone bench near the fountain, she opened her journal and began to write, her pen gliding slowly over the paper: