Through the gap:
Vahini’s eyes. No tears yet. Just a slow, cold realization—like watching your own house burn from across the street. Through the gap: Vahini’s eyes
A woman’s low laugh. Not a guest’s. Intimate. Through the gap: Vahini’s eyes
Surya turns. His face collapses—shock, then shame, then a pathetic attempt at composure. “Vahini… this is not—” Through the gap: Vahini’s eyes
The sound of her anklets—soft, deliberate—echoes down the hallway like a countdown.
Vahini doesn’t scream. Doesn’t drop the thermos.
She carries a thermos of soup—his favorite rasam .