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The morning sun spilled in golden streams through the tall windows of the Mehta house, casting a warm, drowsy glow across the spacious dining room. The clinking of cutlery, soft murmurs, and scent of freshly prepared parathas filled the air.

At the head of the polished mahogany dining table sat Divya's father, Neeraj Mehta, wearing his usual crisp white kurta, eyes scanning the paper with half interest. Beside him sat Aarini's father, Vikas Mehta, looking fresh in a grey formal shirt, quietly sipping his tea, his expression unreadable yet gentle.

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reverieewrites

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