The ceiling fan spins lazily above, stirring the heavy air of the drawing room. I’m in my favorite silk saree, the one my husband once loved, adjusting the pallu over my shoulder when I catch Hari watching me from the doorway. His book hangs forgotten in his hand. Then Vikram walks in behind him, and the silence shifts—thicker, warmer.

"Aunty, you always look… put together," Vikram says, smiling, but his eyes don’t leave mine. Hari clears his throat, turning away. I feel exposed, desired—and God help me, alive.

Later that night, I hear whispers outside my door. Not words, just breath. When I open it, no one’s there. But on the floor lies a single jasmine flower, the kind I wear in my hair.

The next morning, both boys avoid me at breakfast. But then Hari slides a note beside my teacup: "I can’t pretend anymore."

Now I stand at the edge of a choice: burn the note and restore order, confront them together, or reply to only one.