As I stood at the entrance, ready to step inside, my eyes landed on an old man sitting in a chair with his eyes closed. At first glance, he seemed to be asleep, but then I noticed the slight tapping of his fingers on the armrest. I stepped closer, and only then did I realize—it was Aman Mehra.

I hesitated. In my original world, my grandfather had passed away when I was very young. Yet, seeing him here, so close, filled me with a strange warmth. There was an odd sense of familiarity, a connection that didn’t belong to me but to the Prisha of this world. It felt as if we had known each other forever, like an unspoken bond that had always existed between us.

As I was lost in thought, I suddenly heard my name.

"Prisha, my child," he said with a happy face, his joy so pure that it made my chest tighten.

"Grandpa… how are you?" I asked, forcing a smile, though I felt strangely out of place.

"I’m fine… Did you come to meet me or your father?" he asked, but there was something heavy in his voice—a quiet sorrow that made my heart ache.

I hesitated. The original Prisha had always admired her father deeply, so much that she kept her distance from Aman Mehra, fearing it would upset him. She rarely spoke to him, barely acknowledged his presence, and only returned home for her father’s sake. He knew it. He must have always known.

And yet, he still looked at me with such warmth, such quiet hope.

"N-No… I came to meet you, Grandpa," I said, the words slipping out before I could second-guess them. "I missed you, so I decided to come home to see you."

His eyes softened, but a shadow of doubt flickered across his face.

"Really?" he asked, his voice quieter now. "You came just to meet me? Not your father?"

"Yes," I said, nodding firmly.

For a moment, he simply stared at me, as if trying to find traces of the granddaughter he had longed for. Then, he let out a soft chuckle, nodding to himself.

And just like that, an unfamiliar warmth spread through my chest—one that didn’t belong to the original Prisha, but to me.

"That's good. I thought you were never going to come home after that fight," he said with a sigh, his voice carrying the weight of unspoken emotions. "You didn’t pick up my calls, nor did you reply to any of my messages. Not even your mother’s…"

He took a deep breath before continuing, his words slow, hesitant.

"I know you hate me for shouting at your father." He paused, his gaze searching my face, as if bracing himself for my anger, as if expecting me to pull away again.

There was something about the way he looked at me—like he was afraid. Afraid that I would shut him out, that I would push him away forever. And in that moment, I realized how much he must have been hurting too.

I felt a lump forming in my throat, but instead of speaking, I reached for his hand, wrapping my fingers around his wrinkled, trembling ones. His skin was rough, aged, but warm—so familiar, so comforting.

"I don’t hate you, Grandpa," I whispered, my voice barely audible, yet carrying the emotions I couldn’t put into words.

His eyes widened slightly, as if he wasn’t expecting those words. Then, after a moment, he let out a soft chuckle, his lips curling into a small, relieved smile.

"You always were stubborn," he murmured, squeezing my hand gently. "Just like your father."

I swallowed hard, my heart aching at the mention of my father. But for now, in this moment, I just wanted to hold on to this warmth—the warmth of a family I had longed for but never truly had.