One rainy afternoon, in a cozy corner of a centuries-old London flat, Meera's aunt sat down with her over steaming cups of chai. With a tremor in her voice, she revealed a secret that had long been buried.
"It was I who helped Leela try to escape," she confessed, eyes glistening with both regret and hope. "Your mother, Lata, was trapped. She burned those letters out of fear and duty. But I believed that someday, you'd have the courage to break free."
She handed Meera a fragile train ticket stub, yellowed by time but marked with the promise of a new beginning. "Your destiny is not written in stone," she whispered. "You have the power to forge your own path."
The weight of the past and the promise of the future mingled in that small token—a silent challenge to the traditions that had defined them for so long.