Footsteps echo before the first line even drops, the Virani home vibrating with something close to collapse. Tulsi holds her ground, worn thin yet sharpened by resolve. Secrets hang thick, old wounds pulsing under quiet glances.
A clash erupts mid-room, voices piling on top of one another - opinions fired like stones, none landing true. Listening stopped hours ago, maybe days. Chaos wears familiar faces here.
Now it’s the kids’ fight, their voices cutting fast, always on guard. Shobha speaks up, aiming calm into the room - yet louder shouts swallow her whole. A pause comes when Savita stares at Tulsi; years hang heavy behind that glance.
No sound needed. Same old steps, repeated too many times before. Out of nowhere, a paper changes everything. Silence falls - sudden, heavy. The room, so loud seconds before, holds its breath. Not one person moves. Even the air seems to stop.
What hit me hardest was seeing Tulsi struggle to speak up. Carrying the whole family’s load again, just like always. Mihir jumps in, though even he looks stretched thin under all this noise. Words fly fast now, rough around the edges, nothing like rehearsed lines.
Real exhaustion cracks through every reply. Talk turns to heritage, to being a Virani, yet the room shrinks with every breath. Pressure builds without warning.
Ahead of the final moments, a quiet gathering takes place near the edge of the garden. Dark shapes shift under low light, voices barely above a whisper. What slips through those hushed words carries weight far beyond the moment.
When evening falls across the Virani home, things have already shifted. In the last frame, only Tulsi remains, beside the small shrine, flame catching in the oil lamp. Her fingers tremble slightly.
That stillness speaks louder than any outcry could. Maybe tomorrow will show whether someone says sorry, or if everything keeps falling apart. You’re left thinking - can she really make it right, given how far things have already cracked?
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