The rain had been falling since afternoon, a steady grey curtain that turned the old family house on the outskirts of the city into something isolated and heavy. Khushi stood in the doorway of the living room with her suitcase still in her hand, the wheels leaving faint wet tracks on the wooden floor. She was twenty-six, taller than she had been the last time she lived under this roof, but the house still made her feel small. Balraj sat in his usual armchair near the window, a newspaper folded on his knee, the soft yellow light from the side lamp catching the silver in his hair and the deep lines around his eyes. He was seventy-one, broad-shouldered still, the kind of man who had never quite let age soften the weight of his presence.

She had called him two days ago, voice thin, telling him the job was gone and the relationship had ended in the same week. He had simply said come home. No questions. Now she was here, and the silence between them felt thicker than the rain.