EPILOGUE

Seven years had passed since destiny had brought Chaahat and Mithran together. Now, they were a family of three, living in a cosy home nestled in the suburbs. As the golden sun dipped below the horizon, bathing the living room in a warm glow, Chaahat and Mithran sat on the sofa, watching their two-year-old son, Rishab, play with his motorcycle toys on the carpeted floor.

Rishab's eyes sparkled with excitement as he pushed his miniature motorcycles across the carpet, making vrooming sounds that mirrored the real thing. His raven-black hair resembled his father's, and his eyes held the same mischievous glint that Chaahat had fallen in love with all those years ago.

"Look at him, Mithran," Chaahat said, her voice filled with pride. "He has got your passion for motorcycles."

___