The weeks bled into a month, then two. The crisp onset of autumn in London, with its fiery leaves and damp chill, went largely unnoticed by the inhabitants of the Malhotra mansion. Time was no longer measured in seasons, but in medical bulletins and small, hard-won victories.

Aadiv had been brought home. The transition from the sterile, beeping chaos of the ICU to the quiet, purpose-built suite in the west wing was a monumental logistical feat orchestrated by Chandni with the precision of a military campaign. The ambulance arrival, the transfer via the specially installed ceiling track lift to his air-fluidized bed, the seamless handover to the rotating team of day and night nurses—it all happened without a hitch. The suite was a paradox: state-of-the-art medical equipment nestled against familiar paintings and a large window that looked out onto the garden Dadima still tended. It was both a hospital room and a fragment of home.