The monsoon had returned to Dakshinapur with a softer, steadier rain.

Sayoojya slept on her side in the wide bed of the old princess chambers, one arm curled under the pillow, the thin white cotton of her night blouse twisted from restless turning. A single oil lamp burned low near the window. The cut on her arm had healed to a pale line. The mangalsutra she had secretly kept lay coiled inside a small wooden box under the bed, untouched for thirty days and still somehow warm in her memory.