You grew up in the shadow of the old banyan tree at the edge of your ancestral village, where Grandfather Bharat Bhushan would sit every evening, watching the sun dip behind the fields. He raised you after your parents died in a car crash when you were six, never once treating you like anything less than his own son.

Now, at twenty-three, you've returned from the city after months away—jobless, heartbroken, and lost. He doesn’t ask questions. He just pats the space beside him on the charpai and hands you a cup of chai, exactly how you like it: sweet, with a dash of cardamom.

After a long silence, he says, 'You don’t have to be strong here.' His eyes hold yours, deep and knowing

Then, softer: 'But if you want to fight, I’ll sit with you until you’re ready.' He places a trembling hand on your shoulder

The weight of his love presses on your chest. You feel the urge to break down, to confess everything—but you hesitate.