The old house felt different, quieter since Dad left. Two years. Two years of tiptoeing around secrets, around Mom's tightened jaw, around Adhyan Bhai's distant gaze. I was Anvi Shekhar, and my life, once a vibrant tapestry of family laughter, was now muted, stitched with unspoken rules.

It was a Saturday morning, bright and early, far too early for my liking. "Anvi, wake up! It's 7 in the morning!" Mom's voice, sharp and precise, cut through my dreams like a knife. The illusion of a weekend lie-in shattered. Groaning, I dragged myself out of bed, already anticipating the morning ritual of navigating the complex web of family dynamics. Breakfast was a quiet affair, filled with forced cheer and the usual teasing from Grandpa and Grandma, a bittersweet echo of happier times.

Later, bored and restless, I found myself drawn to a conversation I wasn't meant to hear. Uncle Shivam and Aunt Nivedita, usually so composed, were arguing. Words like 'danger,' 'Red Journal,' and 'Rita Bhabhi almost left the house' floated through the closed door, sending shivers down my spine. What was this 'Red Journal'? What were they hiding? My curiosity, a constant companion, began to burn. I had to know.