In the heat of the summer, when the earth seemed to breathe a collective sigh, Radhika found herself standing in the attic of her grandmother's ancestral home in the small village of Haripad. The house, a crumbling relic of the Travancore architecture, had always been a place of mystery, with its faded wooden floors and peeling walls. It was as though the house itself was a museum of forgotten years, with every object in it holding a story no one dared to tell. Radhika, however, had always been fascinated by those untold stories. Now, at twenty-eight, after years of living in the bustling chaos of Bangalore, she had returned to the house, seeking answers, seeking... something. She didn’t know what. But she felt it, like a whisper in her bones—something pulling her back to this place, to this family, to the legacy that felt incomplete. Her grandmother, whom she called Muthassi , was old. Old in a way that felt eternal, as if she had always existed, perched in her corner of the house
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