The sky burned with shades of gold and crimson, the sun slowly sinking beneath the endless stretch of desert. The evening breeze carried the scent of sandalwood and marigolds from the garden below, where laughter and music intertwined with the rustling of leaves. The Rathore Mansion, once a solemn monument to tradition, now pulsed with life—children chasing each other through the courtyards, artists dipping their brushes into rich hues, and teachers imparting knowledge beneath the shade of ancient trees.

Arjun and Aanya sat on the balcony, their fingers intertwined like they had been for decades. Time had carved soft lines into Aanya’s face, but her eyes still held the same fire that had drawn Arjun to her all those years ago. His own hair, now dusted with silver, ruffled gently in the wind, his once-imposing presence mellowed into something wiser, steadier.