The sun left.
The candlelight returned.
And still, they moved.
When it was over—whatever “over” meant in a house that never slept—they lay tangled on the rug, limbs like vines, skin glistening with sweat, rain tapping against the windows.
No one spoke.
They didn’t need to.
Kalpana looked at each of them in turn.
And then she said what no one had dared to say.
“I love you.”
Not to one.
To all.
And the reply wasn’t words.
It was the way their fingers found hers in the dark.
The way breath slowed together.
The way no one moved away.
Because this wasn’t a moment.
It was a life.
And it had finally begun.