The seasons turned, a subtle shift in the light through the garden window, a softening of the London chill. Inside the west wing, time was measured not in months, but in milestones. Aadiv could now raise his right arm to his chest. He could hold a weighted spoon with a claw-like grip, a monumental feat that meant he could, on good days, feed himself a few mouthfuls of yogurt. His speech, though still slow and deliberate, had lost its slur, each word a hard-won victory of breath and cognitive control.

With this returning clarity came a more comprehensive understanding of his captivity. He knew the exact dimensions of his paralysis—the dead, heavy silence from the waist down, the sporadic, agonizing nerve pain that felt like lightning in his bones. He knew the names and purposes of a dozen medications. And he knew, with an intimacy that was both humbling and haunting, the shape of Chandni's devotion.