The large house on the outskirts of the city was already glowing with Christmas lights by the time the twin uncles arrived on the evening of the twenty-third. Snow had begun to fall in soft, wet flakes that clung to the dark branches of the pine trees lining the driveway. Inside, the smell of cinnamon, roasted chestnuts, and pine needles filled every room. Riya stood at the top of the stairs in a soft red sweater and black leggings, watching as her mother opened the front door and pulled both men into a tight embrace.

They were identical in every physical way: the same tall, broad frames, the same sharp jawlines, the same thick dark hair just beginning to silver at the temples. Both were in their late forties, both still carried the quiet authority of men who had never needed to raise their voices to be obeyed. Yet the moment they stepped into the light, the differences became clear.