Mahi, with her usual gentle warmth and an almost innocent grace, prepared a glass of warm milk for her father-in-law and another for Riyansh. It was a small, affectionate ritual she had embraced, a quiet way to nurture the family she now belonged to. Balancing both glasses carefully, she first approached Riyansh's room.

She tapped softly on the door. From within, a deep, resonant voice, one that always commanded a certain respect from Mahi, replied, "Come in." Pushing the door open, Mahi stepped inside. Her eyes fell upon Riyansh, not at his desk as usual, but slumped on the couch, his head tilted back, one hand pressed hard against his forehead as if battling a severe headache. There was a slight furrow in his brow, hinting at an irritation born of intense pain. Papers were scattered untidily on the coffee table in front of him. As the Sarpanch, he was a figure of authority both in the community and within their household, and Mahi held him in immense regard, his strict demeanor and commanding presence demanded respect from everyone, and she was no exception. Even so, his presence sometimes made her feel a subtle, unidentifiable pressure.