The Baker's Visit and a Cold Confrontation

The memory of the scent was a phantom limb—a lingering ache for something that was no longer there. Anika sat in the sprawling, silent Aggarwal garden, the crisp morning air doing little to soothe her restless spirit. The previous night, Vikram's rare moment of vulnerability had opened a small, ajar door into his guarded world, but it had also intensified her own feelings of being trapped. He was a man burdened by a legacy of pain and war, and she was a woman whose only legacy was the flour and sugar that clung to her apron. She missed her bakery. She missed the simple, honest hum of the stand mixer and the familiar laughter of her mother and father. She felt a profound and painful longing for the place she had left behind. She needed to go home.