The Secret Recipe   The afternoon sun lay softly over Chennai, filtering through the neem tree outside Ananya’s ancestral home in Mylapore. Dust motes floated lazily in the air as she stood in the attic, surrounded by trunks that smelled of time—camphor, old paper, and something faintly spicy. She had returned after her grandmother’s passing, not just to settle the house, but to listen—to the silences that old walls carry. It was in the smallest wooden trunk, its brass lock rusted but dignified, that Ananya found the book. The cover was cracked leather, the corners frayed, and the pages inside