Ishani was glued behind Ranvijay as they stepped inside. Her fingers were almost brushing the back of his shirt, a silent sign of how tightly she was holding onto his presence. Ranvijay, sensing her nervousness, did not utter a word. He simply let her follow at her own pace, his tall figure shielding her from the curious eyes that might fall on her.

The moment they crossed the main door, the scent of wet wood and incense hit her. A wide verandah stretched before them, polished wooden chairs lined neatly along the wall, their curved carvings telling tales of decades gone by. On either side, large earthen pots brimmed with fresh marigolds and jasmine, filling the air with a faint sweetness. The marble flooring had tiny cracks here and there, yet it held the dignity of a house that had witnessed generations.