Raghvendra’s soul stood amidst the destruction he had caused, his gaze heavy with guilt. Seeking solace, he wandered into the kitchen to relive that fateful moment when everything changed. He sat down at the kitchen table, the same spot where he had shared countless meals with his family. The lingering scent of her chai, the faint scratches on the wooden surface where Arjun had once banged his spoon… every detail was a painful reminder of what he had lost. The memories of holding a newborn Arjun, his soft and little fingers to holding his ashes. To hold her hand around the flames to losing her hand in the flames. The memory twisted in his spectral gut, the joy turning to ash as he remembered how it all ended, the flames, the screams. When a voice broke the silence, soft yet familiar: “Father.” He turned sharply, his breath catching. Arjun stood there, hand in hand with Muskan, just as he remembered them. But instead of joy, a cold dread gripped him. Could this be another cruel manipulation? Raghvendra ignored it. He knew that Kua still existed, it was his world, and he was just a pawn in it. The voice grew stronger, Tears welled in Raghvendra’s spectral eyes, blurring the already indistinct figures of his family. He squeezed them shut, trying to force the image away, to deny the hope that flickered within him. The thought echoed in his mind, a cold, hard truth that threatened to shatter the fragile illusion before him. He clenched his fists, fighting against the tide of longing that threatened to overwhelm him. But Arjun, as if sensing his hesitation, stepped forward, his small arms wrapping around his father. “Father, we’re not fabricated,” he said gently. He could almost feel Arjun’s small hand in his, the way Muskan’s eyes sparkled when he looked up. “We’re a part of you.” Muskan smiled softly, her presence calm and unwavering. “We believe in you,” she said firmly. Raghvendra finally realized: these moments, these feelings, were his and his alone. Not even a god could fabricate such joy. He finally embraced their appearance, a wave of warmth washing over his spectral form as he wrapped his arms around them, a bittersweet ache blooming in his chest. As he finally allowed himself to embrace them, a sense of peace settled over him. The crushing weight of guilt that had burdened him for so long began to lift. He held them tightly, tears streaming down his face. His voice, hoarse and choked with emotion, finally broke the silence. “I… I love you,” he whispered, the words a desperate plea, a heartfelt confession, a promise that echoed through the desolate kitchen.

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