The small clay lamp flickers weakly inside the dim hut. The smell of dried flowers, ashes, and dust mixes in the air the same air that once carried laughter, the same walls that once echoed with Manohar’s calm voice and Samaira’s innocent giggles.

Now, silence rules the house. Titli kneels down beside a small trunk kept on the mud floor. Her hands tremble as she folds the few sarees she owns....wornout, faded, yet neatly washed