Aaina 1993 -

She never found the letter. But that night, she called her mother.

It was a courtyard. Moonlit. A woman in a deep red lehenga sat on a swing, her back to Meera. Her hair was a long, black river down her spine. She was crying. The sound was like dry leaves skittering on marble. aaina 1993

Meera felt the warmth first. Then the smell of mothballs. The woman was younger than Meera now, beautiful in the way a sharp knife is beautiful. She placed a cool hand on Meera’s shoulder. She never found the letter

Meera shook her head, tears spilling.

“But you will.”

The woman didn’t turn, but the crying stopped. A hand—long, pale, with henna-darkened nails—reached out and pressed against the glass from the other side. Meera, hypnotized, pressed her own palm against it. The glass was not cold. It was warm. Like skin. Moonlit