12

5. War

The breakfast table was unusually quiet for a Sunday morning. The air was thick — not with the smell of parathas or chai, but with unspoken tension. Arshiya sat quietly, avoiding her father Vikram Raichand’s eyes, while her bua occasionally glanced at her with soft concern. Aniket sat beside Arshiya, casually playing with the spoon but fully alert to the mood around.

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🌺 citrine - coded 🌺

Writing from the ruins. Don’t read too closely—I’m still bleeding.