.....
Not too far away...
Tucked amid the northern snowfields, in a quiet lane brushed with cherry blossoms and cloaked in silver frost, stood a charming little billet.
It was the home of Major Abhishek Singh Rajput—a soldier by uniform, a guardian by soul, and above all, the protector of his little niece, Aadyanshi.
For four winters and four monsoons, this tiny haven had sheltered the young princess of the Rajput legacy. Here, in this snow-wrapped sanctuary, she had laughed, cried, dreamed, and grown—one delicate petal at a time.
---
As dusk fell and the lanterns began to flicker outside, Major Abhishek slowly approached her—his footsteps soft upon the snow. He reached out and gently clasped her mittened hand, her fingers curled like the fragile petals of a chamelia flower.
With that single gesture—half a salute, half a prayer—he offered his devotion, loyalty, and unspoken love.
"Come, little one," he said in a hushed tone, "Let's go inside. Mama's waiting."
The house they entered wasn't made of grand pillars or carved wood from ancient oaks. It wasn't an architectural marvel. But it was something far more important—
It was a home.
Small. Intimate. Alive.
---
The front door had a tiny knocker shaped like a flower bud, and a small welcome mat—a deep blue rug embroidered with little stars. The marble floor, though cold, shimmered with soft light from the overhead fairy lamps. A few steps in, a chaise longue, once belonging to their great-grandfather, sat warmly beneath a thick woolen throw.
On the wall hung an array of glories—medals, citations, and ribbons collected over decades of service to the nation. Right beside them, like a crown upon a warrior's head, were the colorful paintings and drawings of little Aadyanshi—full of laughter, clouds, and flying creatures.
Near the wall stood a flickering television, stuck endlessly on cartoon channels, where voices of Doraemon and Nobita chimed through the house like background music to their daily lives.
---
In the corner stood a ladder—simple and wooden, with steps carved by hand. It led to a little loft bedroom, just big enough for a dreamer.
There lay her world:
A tiny table with books stacked in every direction.
A bed, covered with a navy-blue woolen blanket, half-draped over a school bag.
And the walls? They were no longer just walls.
They were her canvas of imagination.
Posters of Doraemon, time machines, bamboo-copters, and anywhere doors filled the space. Dreams lived here. And in the absence of Nobita, one could almost believe Aadyanshi needed Doraemon the most—to fix what life hadn't explained yet.
Outside, the lawn was a mosaic of frosted grass and early cherry blossoms, petals glimmering like pearls against the snow. Autumn had arrived early, bringing with it a celebration of change.
The streets were adorned with paper lanterns of all hues and shapes, glowing softly under the night sky.
It was the time of the Lantern Festival—a tradition borrowed from far-off lands, now woven into the fabric of their hearts.
---
Inside, a little voice called out:
"Mama! I'm starving to annihilation! Let's eat before I faint!"
Laughter followed. The meal was warm, full of love and soft music. After dinner, little Aadyanshi drifted to sleep in her snowy bed, holding her plush Doraemon close, lost in a world where everything could be fixed with a gadget.
As the moon climbed higher, Abhishnigdha Chakrabarty, now lovingly called "Mama" by the little princess, leaned gently against Mr. Ashirbad Singhania's shoulder in the living room.
For a moment, everything was still.
Then, breaking the silence, Major Abhishek finally spoke.
---
"It's time," he said, eyes fixed on the softly glowing medals.
"Time to return to our real home."
She turned to look at him, startled.
"Why now?" she whispered.
He took a deep breath.
"My transformation is complete," he said quietly.
"I've served my duty here. And you've completed your graduation. Our little princess has lived here long enough without knowing the full truth. My brother called today... and he's doing better now. I'm being relieved of my post. There's nothing holding us back anymore."
A long pause.
"We should go," he added softly.
"It's been too long since we stood with our family. Too long since we lived for something other than responsibility."
Abhishnigdha nodded slowly.
"You're right," she said.
"So... when do we leave?"
Abhishek turned his gaze to the window, where lanterns danced in the breeze.
"Next month," he said with certainty.
"Let's give her one last Lantern Festival here... then we go home. All of us."
---
To be continued…