By the time the clock struck ten, the Rathore garden looked like the sun itself had decided to attend their wedding.
Yellow drapes rippled in the soft breeze, brass kalash lined the pathways, and marigolds spilled like confetti everywhere the eye could see. Someone had even hung fairy lights between the mango trees — “for the aesthetic,” Aryan claimed — though it was broad daylight.
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 ...