The call to the property agents was short.

“No, I won’t be selling,” Rohan said, firm but calm. “You can stop the paperwork.”

The man on the other end sounded annoyed. “You’ll lose a good offer, sir.”

“I’m keeping something better,” Rohan replied, then hung up.

He stood in the center of the courtyard, phone still in hand. The morning sun filtered through the mango leaves, dappled and golden. The house felt lighter, as if it had been holding its breath all this while — waiting.

Now, it exhaled.

The next few days were a blur of dust and decisions. Rohan rolled up his sleeves, bought brooms, hired a mason, and even got scolded by an old carpenter for not knowing the difference between teak and sal wood.

Meera dropped by every day after school, sometimes helping, sometimes just sitting under the tree, sketching chalk outlines on the floor with the kids from the neighborhood. Word spread quickly in the village: the city boy wasn’t leaving — he was rebuilding.

Walls were scrubbed, windows repaired, and new mats rolled out in the old living room. One corner was filled with books — donated by the school, collected from old homes, and some bought by Rohan himself.

The mango tree’s shade became the children’s favourite reading spot.

Aaji’s saree box was found in a corner cupboard — filled with soft cottons and bright silks. Meera suggested turning them into curtains and cushion covers. “Let her blessings hang in every room,” she said softly.

By the second week, laughter had returned to the house.

Children ran through the courtyard during the day, their bags strewn on the steps. They read aloud, acted out stories, drew pictures with broken crayons. Rohan taught some of them how to type. Meera taught them songs and tongue-twisters. Someone brought a harmonium.

The house — once silent, heavy — now buzzed gently, like an old tanpura tuning back to life.

One evening, as dusk fell and the courtyard began to glow with warm light, Rohan sat beneath the mango tree sipping tea. Meera sat beside him, a child resting against her arm, fast asleep with a book on his lap.

Rohan looked around — the fairy lights strung across the tree branches, the books scattered everywhere, the sound of giggles from inside the kitchen where two kids were learning to make chai.

He smiled.

“This,” he said softly, “this is what Nana meant. The mango tree… it wasn’t just a memory. It was a promise.”

Meera looked at him, eyes warm. “You kept it.”

“No,” he said. “We did.”

The breeze whispered through the leaves above, and the house — no longer just bricks and wood — breathed again, alive with the heartbeat of stories, memories, and new beginnings.