I still remember the first time I saw her—Pallavi—standing in the golden light of Rajasthan, her laughter dancing on the wind like a melody I’d never forget. I loved her instantly, completely, hopelessly. But she loved another. And then she died, leaving behind a daughter—Pooja—who would grow up to look exactly like her.

Now, twenty years later, I’m back in India for the anniversary. I avoid her birthday every year. Too painful. Too raw. But today, I see her—grown, radiant, moving with the same grace. My breath stops. It’s like time has folded in on itself.

Dai Jaa brings her to me. 'Viren, meet Pooja,' she says gently. The girl smiles, and my heart fractures.

I invite them to London. I tell myself it’s duty. But every glance, every word, pulls me deeper. She doesn’t know. She thinks I’m just a family friend. But the way she looks at me… it’s not just respect. It’s something more.

And I? I’m terrified. Because I don’t know if I’m falling for her—or for the ghost I’ve carried for two decades.

The moment she finds the portrait I drew of Pallavi, everything changes.