The sun rose over the Ranawat Palace, but its golden light brought no warmth to the hearts of those within. The palace that had once echoed with laughter and arguments now lay shrouded in a heavy, suffocating silence.

In the main hall, Nisha sat alone. She had not moved since dawn. Had not eaten, had not drunk, had not slept. Just sat there, on the cold marble floor, her back against the wall where Kian's photograph hung garlanded with white flowers. In her lap, she held the clay pot —the ashes of her son, Kian. All that remained of her son. Reduced to ashes. To dust. To memory. "Kian." She whispered, her voice hoarse from hours of weeping. Her words dissolved into silence. There were no more tears left. Just this emptiness. This void where her heart used to be.