The house had become too quiet.
Once, it had been full of laughter and little arguments — Gatha’s teasing voice calling for Siddharth, the sound of utensils, Reva’s chanting in the prayer corner.
Now even the wind seemed to move carefully through it, afraid to break the silence.

Siddharth felt the distance every morning.
Gatha no longer looked at him when he helped her to sit up. She only spoke when she needed something simple — her book, her prayer shawl, a glass of water.
Her “thank-you”s were soft and polite, like she was talking to a stranger.