The Saturday breeze drifted lazily into the kitchen, fluttering the yellow curtains like they were stretching after sleep. The whole house smelled of warm parathas, ghee, and Aadhya’s rose face-cream — a strangely perfect mix.
Aadhya stood at the counter rolling dough, humming under her breath, her hair loosely tied and curling around her cheeks.
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.
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