The next morning began with a knock.

Rohan opened the door to find two men standing there — one in a white shirt tucked too neatly into his trousers, the other balancing a folder and a phone.

“Mr. Rohan Kadam?” the man with the folder asked, offering a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “We’re from Suryavanshi Realty. You spoke to our office? About the house?”

Rohan hesitated, then nodded. “Yes… right. Come in.”

They stepped in with the kind of detachment only people in real estate could master — talking square footage, location potential, redevelopment plans — all while ignoring the cracked walls and the soul of the place.

“This can be a premium villa, sir,” the younger one said, clicking pictures casually. “Open land like this? Mango tree adds value. Maybe we keep it, maybe we don’t. Depends on design.”

Rohan didn’t respond. He was staring at the floor where, years ago, he and Nana had once drawn rangoli together with powdered chalk. That evening still lived in the cracks between the tiles.

“We’ll need to start clearing things soon,” the older man said. “Our legal team can begin processing once you sign. Can we call tomorrow to confirm?”

Rohan nodded slowly, more to end the conversation than to agree. The men left with polite nods, leaving behind the faint smell of aftershave and something colder — finality.

That afternoon, Rohan began cleaning out the rooms.

He started with the kitchen. The old masala tins were rusted shut, and there was a spoon still in the sugar container — as if someone had just stepped out mid-tea. He found Nana’s favourite steel cup, dented near the rim. For a second, he raised it to his lips, then set it back down, guilt curling in his chest.

In the living room, he found the radio — the one Nana used to tune to Marathi bhajans every morning. He turned the knob absent-mindedly. Static. Then, faintly — a crackling voice singing an old devotional. The same one that used to echo through the house during cold winter mornings when Nana wrapped him in a shawl and fed him hot poha with peanuts.

In the bedroom, he opened the old wooden almirah. Inside were folded dhotis, a pair of reading glasses, some mothballs, and a framed photo of Aaji, his grandmother, with jasmine flowers tucked in her hair. The glass was chipped at one corner.

Rohan sat on the bed with the photo in hand, staring at her smile — calm, patient, as if she knew he’d be back one day to see her again.

And that’s when it hit him.

This wasn’t just a house.

This was his childhood hiding in corners, his grandparents’ love folded into drawers, his identity buried beneath layers of dust and silence. Every object whispered, “Don’t forget.”

He tried to imagine bulldozers rolling in, the mango tree cut down, the laughter in the courtyard replaced by concrete. He closed his eyes, and all he could hear was Nana’s voice from the letter:

“Don’t be in a hurry to leave, ha? Sit under the tree once more. Listen…”

That evening, he sat under the mango tree again, a cup of tea in his hand, the sky slowly dimming above.

The buyers would call tomorrow. But for now, Rohan didn’t care.

The house wasn’t just resisting being emptied — it was asking him to stay.

And for the first time since he arrived, he realized something dangerous.

He wanted to.