Veeresh sat alone in the dim light of his study, smoke curling lazily from the cigarette between his fingers. The world outside the palace felt muted, the laughter of servants, the clatter of dishes, and even the cries of the triplets—he heard them, but it all felt distant, as though life itself had been put on pause.

His eyes fell on a book he had tucked away weeks ago, one he had written before all the chaos—the one he had never expected to read again. With a trembling hand, he pulled it from the shelf, dust motes dancing in the sunbeams, and opened it.

The words scrawled inside hit him like a tidal wave:

"Thank you for everything. I am happy with you and our babies. You were my enemy, but you became my forever. I love you."

Veeresh’s fingers trembled over the page. His chest tightened. The words—her words—were alive, even though she was gone. Even though the palace was filled with echoes and not her laughter, her love reached out to him from the page.

He whispered into the empty room, his voice breaking, “Poornima… my forever… my love… you gave me everything, even when I didn’t deserve it.”

A single tear traced down his cheek as he closed the book gently, holding it to his chest. The smoke from his cigarette curled upward, merging with the ghost of her presence in the room, and for the first time since the funeral, he felt a strange kind of solace.

She was gone, but her love—the love of the woman who had been his enemy, his challenge, his heartbeat—was etched forever in his heart and in the life they had created together: their three children.

Veeresh exhaled slowly, crushing the cigarette in the ashtray, and looked toward the nursery where their babies slept. His resolve hardened: he would honor her memory, raise their children with the love she had inspired, and live in a way that would make her proud.

Even in death, Poornima had left him a map for how to keep living.