Coming home doesn’t always mean finding peace. Sometimes, it means confronting the ghosts you left behind.

The moment I stepped out of the car and onto the driveway, the overwhelming familiarity of the house hit me like a wave. The sprawling garden in front of the mansion was immaculately maintained, each flowerbed bursting with vibrant colors. The pathways were lined with the same stone tiles I used to hop on as a child, pretending they were stepping stones in a river. My laughter from those carefree days echoed in my mind as if it were only yesterday.

I took a deep breath, feeling the tug of bittersweet memories threatening to pull me under. This place… it used to be home. But now? Now, it was just a house—beautiful, yes, but cold and distant. A shell of what it once was to me.

I let my eyes wander, taking in the details of the façade, the little fountain in the garden, and the bench where I used to sit with Bhai after school, eating the snacks Mom had prepared for us. I felt a lump in my throat, but I quickly swallowed it down. No tears, Nandini. Not today.

Lost in thought, I didn’t hear the footsteps behind me until I was suddenly engulfed in a tight hug. My heart skipped a beat in surprise, and I froze for a moment. But then, the familiar warmth and scent hit me. My Elder Brother Rudraksh Murthy. Hard on the outside but Soft on the inside.

"Bhai," I whispered, feeling my own arms move automatically to hug him back.

He was sobbing, actually sobbing, and I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. "Stop crying like a baby, bhai," I teased, though my voice was softer than usual.

He pulled back slightly but kept his hands on my shoulders. His eyes were red-rimmed, his expression a mix of relief and sorrow. "It’s been two years, Nandu," he said, his voice cracking. "Do you have any idea how much I’ve missed you?"

I felt a pang in my chest. It had been two years since we’d last seen each other, even though he used to visit me occasionally in New York. But his responsibilities had kept him from coming.

"Stop being dramatic, bhai," I said, wiping the tears from his cheeks with my thumb. "I’m here now, aren’t I? Now let’s go inside before Mr. Hitler starts complaining."

A small, amused smile tugged at his lips, and he nodded. Just as we turned toward the house, a voice stopped us in our tracks.

"Wait," came a firm yet gentle voice. I turned and Mrs. Swarna Murthy, my mom, approached us, a small aarti thali in her hands. My jaw clenched instinctively, and I felt my defenses rising.

She reached us, her face alight with emotions I couldn’t quite decipher. Without saying anything, she began the aarti, her hands moving in practiced circles in front of me.

I opened my mouth to interrupt—it felt too much, too staged—but Rudraksh bhai placed a firm hand on my wrist, shaking his head ever so slightly. I sighed, rolling my eyes but staying silent, even though my heart was pounding in irritation.

When the aarti was done, Swarna Ma looked at me, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. She stepped closer as if to hug me, but I took a deliberate step back, holding up a hand.

"That’s enough," I said, my voice colder than I intended. "There’s no need for dramatics. Let’s just get this over with."

Her face fell, the hopeful light in her eyes dimming. She nodded slightly and stepped aside, gesturing for me to come in. I felt a flicker of guilt, but I pushed it aside. I wasn’t here to mend fences—not yet, anyway.

I stepped inside the house, the smell of fresh flowers and incense greeting me. Everything looked the same, yet different. The furniture was polished to perfection, the walls adorned with new paintings, but it was still the same house where I’d grown up. My eyes flitted to the staircase, where Bhai and I used to race each other, to the living room where we’d sit as a family, laughing, and sharing stories. The memories came rushing back, unbidden, and I felt an ache deep in my chest. This used to be home.

"Bhai," I said, turning to Bhai to ground myself. "Where’s Bhabhi?"

Before he could reply, a soft, cheerful voice called out, "Right here!"

I turned just in time to see Mrs. Prisha Murthy, my Bhabhi rushing toward me, her arms open wide. Before I could react, she wrapped me in a warm hug, her infectious energy cutting through the tension I hadn’t realized I was holding.

"Nandini! Finally! I’ve been waiting for this moment forever," she gushed, pulling back just enough to look at me with a wide smile.

I couldn’t help but smile back. She had been nothing but kind and understanding, even from afar. I have just met her two times, one when she visited New York with Bhai right after their marriage and the other one when they had their cute little boy.

"It’s good to see you, Bhabhi," I said, my tone softer than it had been all morning.

We were catching up when I noticed a tiny figure peeking out from behind Bhabhi’s legs. His big, curious eyes were fixed on me, his small hands clutching the fabric of her saree. I crouched down, my smile widening.

"Ansh," I said gently, extending my arms. "Won’t you come to meet your Bua?"

The little boy hesitated for a moment, his gaze darting between me and Bhabhi. But then, as if deciding I was safe, he let go of his mother’s saree and stepped toward me. I scooped him up in a tight hug, his giggles melting the last bit of tension in my heart.

"You’ve gotten so big!" I exclaimed, holding him at arm’s length to get a good look. "I can’t believe you’re already four!"

"You know my age?" he asked, his voice filled with wonder.

"Of course, I do!" I said, tapping his nose. "I’m your Bua. I know everything about you."

He giggled again, his tiny arms wrapping around my neck. For the first time in what felt like forever, I felt a genuine warmth spreading through me. For a moment, the weight of the past lifted, replaced by the pure, untainted joy of being with someone who loved me unconditionally.

As Ansh bombarded me with questions about New York, airplanes, and his favorite cartoon characters, I answered each one with patience and enthusiasm. His innocent curiosity and bright laughter reminded me of what I’d missed—of what I’d left behind.

As I sat on the floor, listening to Ansh’s non-stop chatter and answering his questions, a familiar tension began to creep up my spine. It wasn’t just the weight of being here, surrounded by echoes of a past I wasn’t sure I wanted to revisit—it was the sense of something looming, someone.

And then he entered.

The sound of measured footsteps against the marble floor silenced even Ansh. I turned my head slowly, and there he was—Manish Murthy, the man I had once looked up to with awe, then with fear, and now… I wasn’t sure what I felt.

He looked the same yet different. But his presence was as commanding as ever, his aura radiating authority, respect, and that infuriating obsession with reputation.

He didn’t greet me, didn’t offer a smile, or even a nod. His gaze settled on me for a moment—cold, assessing, indifferent.

“First,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument, “let’s have breakfast.”

Just like that. No acknowledgment of the years that had passed, of the distance, the silence, the hurt. It was as though nothing had happened, as though I was still a child under his roof, expected to obey without question.

I swallowed the sharp retort that was bubbling up in my throat and stood up, smoothing my hands over my kurta. "Of course," I murmured, my voice laced with an edge I didn’t bother to hide.

Bhai led me to the dining room, and the sight before me made my steps falter. The table was laden with dishes—golden pancakes, fluffy parathas, bowls of fresh fruits, steaming cups of chai, and more. All of it was meticulously arranged, almost as if someone had gone through a checklist of my favorite foods.

Bhabhi broke the silence with a bright smile. “You know what, Nandini? All this was specially prepared for you by Ma. She’s been in the kitchen since morning.”

I glanced toward Mom, who was standing near the serving counter, her eyes flickering between hope and hesitation. My heart tightened at the sight of her, but my anger was quicker, sharper. It surged forward, drowning out anything else.

Mom stepped closer with a plate of pancakes, her hand trembling slightly as she offered it to me. "I know you like pancakes," she said softly, her voice almost pleading.

I stared at the plate for a long moment, then at her. My lips curled into a bitter smile as I leaned back in my chair. "Oh," I said, my tone dripping with sarcasm. "Suddenly concerned? Too late. I’ve learned how to take care of myself, no thanks to you."

The words came out harsher than I intended, but I didn’t regret them. Not entirely. Mom flinched as though I had slapped her, her hand falling to her side. She stepped back, her face pale, and without another word, she moved to the other side of the table.

Bhai shot me a disapproving look, but I ignored him. I wasn’t here to play nice. Not after everything.

Bhabhi, bless her heart, tried to lighten the mood. “So, Nandini,” she began, her voice overly bright, “did you see the new decorations in the garden? We redid the flowerbeds last month. It looks so beautiful now.”

I forced a smile, nodding politely but not really responding. The tension at the table was thick enough to cut with a knife, and I wasn’t in the mood to pretend otherwise.

Breakfast proceeded in near silence. The only sounds were the clinking of cutlery and the occasional murmur from Bhabhi. The only real voice came from Ansh, who chattered away, oblivious to the storm brewing around him.

"Bua," he said, tugging at my sleeve, "did you know I can count to twenty now? Want to hear?"

"Of course, I do," I replied, my smile softening as I looked at him. "Show me, champ."

As Ansh began counting, his little voice filling the awkward silence, I caught Bhai’s gaze. He was watching me with a mixture of frustration and concern. I raised an eyebrow at him, daring him to say something, but he simply shook his head and returned to his meal.

By the time breakfast was over, my nerves were frayed. I felt like a coil wound too tightly, ready to snap. Mom had retreated to the kitchen, and Dad had excused himself without a word to me. Typical.

Bhai and Bhabhi tried to make conversation as we moved to the living room, but my responses were clipped, my patience worn thin. Ansh climbed onto my lap, his small arms wrapping around me, and I held onto him like he was the only thing keeping me grounded.

Hope you all like the chapter.....

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