At nine o'clock in the morning, the dining table was full, yet the room felt strangely hollow. Breakfast had been served on time, plates arranged neatly, cups steaming quietly—but no one seemed truly present in the act of eating. The house breathed in restraint, as if even the walls were careful not to disturb the fragile calm.

Chacha sat with his posture stiff, fingers moving mechanically, his attention divided between the food and the unspoken concern hovering over the table. Chachi served and then settled into her seat, her eyes repeatedly drifting toward the staircase, pausing there longer than necessary. Alok ate slowly, absently, the rhythm of his movements betraying a mind burdened with worry rather than hunger.