The popcorn packet crackled like old secrets in the microwave.

It sat there spinning slowly under the soft, amber light of the Mehra Manor’s open kitchen. The room—spacious and gently sunlit—held the timeless warmth of a family home. Dark wood counters, glass jars labeled in Priya’s looping, romantic handwriting, and the soft scent of vanilla clinging to the air from a candle lit hours ago. Outside the tall French windows, dusk lazily painted the sky in watercolor streaks—pink flirting with purple, blue bruising into gold.