The courtroom was silent—almost unnaturally so. No shehnai, no rustle of silk, no whispers of guests speculating or clapping. The walls, tall and imposing, absorbed every movement, every breath. Only a few chairs lined the room, the registrar’s stern gaze fixed at the front, and five witnesses whose presence carried weight far beyond their numbers.

Ruhani sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap, her fingers tracing the soft folds of her floral pink silk saree, its subtle shimmer catching the sunlight filtering through the high windows. The fabric seemed to breathe with her, delicate yet resolute. Her hair was tied into a low bun, a small cluster of jasmine tucked behind one ear, their fragrance faint but unforgettable. A pearl necklace graced her collarbone, its soft glow reflecting the morning light. She looked like something sacred, almost untouchable, like a memory Vihaan never imagined he would get to live in.