The golden morning sun filtered through the rain-washed trees of Chandanpur, making the village look fresh and rejuvenated. Vikram Singh stepped out of his black Thar, adjusting the collar of his crisp, white khadi kurta. His face held a solemnity that was different from his usual administrative sternness; today, he wasn't here as a judge or a ruler, but as a suitor.

He walked into Hariram’s courtyard with measured steps. Hariram and his wife, Saraswati, were sitting on a wooden bench, sipping tea. Seeing the Sarpanch at their door so early, they both scrambled to their feet, their faces a mix of surprise and habitual respect.