Night had fallen. The house lay quiet, wrapped in the stillness that only came after everyone had gone to bed. The faint hum of the ceiling fan and the distant sound of crickets were the only companions of silence.

Ashwath stepped inside the house, his shoulders heavy, his footsteps unusually slow. In his hand was a small packet, neatly wrapped, carrying within it a saree he had picked up before coming home. A simple thing, but to him, it carried the weight of an apology.