She pressed play. Her own voice from the night before filled the hall—raw, imperfect, but full of heart. Then, halfway through, a second voice joined. Live. From the back of the auditorium.

“So is the milkman’s salary. Go.”

On Talent Splash day, Ritu stood backstage, knees knocking. Meenal had just performed a perfect classical number. The crowd clapped. Then it was Ritu’s turn.

She walked up. The principal raised an eyebrow at her prop—an old, silver cassette player.

They finished together. The hall erupted.

Sanjay Sharma had smuggled a microphone. He was walking down the aisle, singing the harmony his sister had taught him thirty years ago.

In her room, under the blanket, she pressed play. A voice crackled through: not Kishore, but a young girl—off-key, bold, and laughing.