Morning sunlight seeped quietly through the curtains. It was Sunday, and the house around them still slept. Siddharth woke as always—before the birds had finished their first calls. Beside him, Gatha had drifted deeper into dreams. At some point in the night she had shifted closer; now her arm rested lightly across his chest, her breath soft and warm against his shoulder. He lay still, letting her quiet weight settle the last of his own sleep.

A sudden, tentative knock broke the hush.
“Sir…?” a voice called, low but insistent.