Morning light dried the last silver raindrops on the leaves. Shoulder to shoulder beside the happiest row of cracked pots, Vivaan rested against Papa and drew the tallest plant, giving its top leaf a proud, waving curve.

Vivek kept the watering can by his slipper and did not reach for his phone. “That one looks taller every Saturday,” he said softly.

Vivaan nodded, still sketching. “So are we,” he whispered, and leaned in closer.