The stars lingered in my eyes long after Acharya Raghunandan had left.
Twenty stars.
Seven destinies.
One life at the centre.
Mine.
I sat alone on the cliff for a long time, the sea whispering below like an ancient lullaby.
Yet tonight, my heart was not as heavy as before.
The prophecy had not taken away the pain of missing home.
If anything, it had made home feel even closer.
Because now I knew—
My journey had meaning.
Still, when I closed my eyes, I did not see stars.
I saw the veranda.
The mango tree.
The swing.
And the faces of the people who had loved me before the world took me away.
Slowly, the night around me blurred.
And memory pulled me back.
Delhi.
The city of lights, power, and endless movement.
Yet in one quiet, prestigious lane stood something no wealth in the world could truly buy.
Home.
Two grand villas stood side by side.
Attached.
Seamlessly joined.
No wall.
No gate dividing one from the other.
Because there had never been a need for one.
On the left stood the ancestral home of the Sharma family.
On the right stood the grand villa of the Yadav family.
But no one ever called them separate houses.
Everyone simply called it the following:
The Twin Legacy Home.
At the centre lay a wide marble veranda stretching across both homes.
A giant mango tree stood proudly in the middle.
Beside it rose an old neem tree, older than even Dadu's stories.
And hanging between the two—
the swing.
My swing.
The moment I thought of it, I could hear the laughter.
"Push him higher!"
"No, it's my turn!"
"Anand bhaiya cheated!"
The voices of my cousins filled the memory like music.
And right in the centre of it all—
me.
The youngest.
The most pampered.
The darling of both families.
I was only five and a half.
Yet in that house, I was treated like a prince.
A tiny pair of feet raced across the marble floor.
Mine.
I was running barefoot through the verandah, a half-eaten mango in one hand.
Behind me, my cousin Aarav shouted,
"Mukul! Stop! That was mine!"
I laughed.
The kind of laugh that only comes from a child who believes the world can never change.
Before I could escape, a pair of strong arms lifted me effortlessly.
I squealed.
"Dadu!"
General Raghav Sharma stood there in his crisp white kurta, his silver hair perfectly combed, his sharp eyes softened by affection.
The scar above his brow made him look terrifying to everyone else.
To me—
He was the safest person in the world.
His stern face broke into the smallest smile.
"My little tiger."
He tapped my nose.
"Stealing mangoes again?"
I giggled.
"Only Aarav bhaiya's",
From the other side of the veranda came a deep, hearty laugh.
My Nanaji.
Rajveer Yadav.
Tall.
Broad.
Charismatic.
The kind of man whose voice filled the entire house.
"Let the boy eat," he laughed. "The youngest has rights."
"Exactly!" I said proudly.
The adults laughed.
That was how it always was.
No matter which side of the family it was—
Everyone pampered me.
Dadi would secretly give me sweets before dinner.
Naniji would feed me mango slices with her own hands.
Maa would pretend to scold them.
Papa would only shake his head and smile.
Then there were my siblings.
My world.
Anand Sharma leaned against the neem tree, arms crossed, pretending to be annoyed.
"Everyone treats him like a king."
From beside the swing, Samantha Sharma shot him a look.
"He is the youngest."
Her voice carried the authority only an elder sister could have.
"Of course, he is special."
Then she knelt in front of me and wiped mango juice from my cheek.
"Look at you."
I pouted.
"I'm not a baby."
Samantha smiled.
"To me, you always will be."
The words hit my heart even now.
Because I could still hear the warmth in her voice.
Even from this lonely island.
Evenings in the twin villas were my favourite.
Both families gathered for dinner on the shared verandah.
One long table.
Too many chairs to count.
Uncles discussing politics.
Aunts gossiping softly.
Grandparents drinking chai.
Cousins arguing over cricket.
And me—
sitting between Anand and Samantha because both insisted I belonged on their side.
Sometimes, one of the family friends would visit.
The wise and mysterious Acharya Raghunandan.
Sometimes, Dadu's military friends.
Sometimes Nanaji's business allies.
Yet everyone treated me the same way.
With affection.
With warmth.
With love.
I was not just a child.
I was the child both families loved.
Back on the island, my eyes slowly opened.
A tear rolled down my cheek.
The sea breeze brushed past my face.
For the first time, the memory did not only hurt.
It gave me strength.
Because now I remembered exactly what I was fighting for.
Not just home.
Not just survival.
But the people who had loved me enough to make two families feel like one.
I slowly touched the token around my neck.
The golden surface glowed softly.
I looked at the stars.
Then whispered,
"I'll come back."
The wind seemed to carry my vow across the sea.
Back to Delhi.
Back to the swing.
Back to the people still waiting.