The morning air in Lajpat Nagar was still and warm, thick with the scent of boiling milk, frying onions, and distant temple bells. The Sharma home—an old two-storey house with aging white paint and flower pots lined unevenly along its small terrace—breathed quietly, as if it too was waking up slowly. 

The modest living room was bathed in soft morning light seeping through faded cotton curtains. A worn-out sofa sat against the wall, its fabric slightly frayed, while a small wooden center table held a cracked photo frame and a half-burnt incense stick. The air carried the warm scent of ginger and cardamom from the kitchen, adding a quiet coziness to the space.