The living room was an adorable battlefield.
Toy cars were scattered like landmines across the carpet, sketch pens had somehow made their way into a flower vase, and Ivaan’s sketchbook—ripped at the corners—was now worn as a “helmet” on Rudra’s head. Aadhya, still fresh from her shower, her damp hair tumbling down her shoulders, was chasing after two barefoot tornadoes who had just stolen her dupatta and declared it a superhero cape.
Each story I write is a quiet labor of love — built word by word, heart to heart. Your support not only honors the effort behind every chapter but also empowers me to create more deeply, more often. If my writing has lingered in your thoughts, moved your heart, or brought you joy, consider becoming a part of this journey. Every contribution is a silent applause that helps the next story come to life.
Write a comment ...