Meera arrived at the old stone bungalow just after noon, the taxi leaving her at the end of the narrow dirt track. The hills were quiet, pine-scented, the air cooler than the plains she had left behind. She was twenty-four, finished with her master’s, looking for a quiet place to think before starting a job in the city. Uncle Vikram had offered the guest room for the summer. “Come stay, beti. The hills are good for the mind,” he had written. She had not seen him in years. He was her mother’s older brother, reclusive since his wife died, living alone with two men who worked the small orchard and the house.

Vikram met her at the door. Tall, silver at the temples, still strong in the shoulders. He smiled the way uncles smile.