"Life happened, Poti," he sighed. "Partings in those days weren't like today. There were no cell phones to track a heartbeat. Her family moved away during the unrest, and the trail went cold. I kept the letters I could never mail."
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The air in the attic always smelled of old sandalwood and dried marigold—a scent that, to Ananya, was the very essence of her grandmother. This was where the "Dada-Poti" (Grandfather-Granddaughter) stories lived, tucked away in yellowed journals and half-forgotten memories. "Life happened, Poti," he sighed