The rain had been falling steadily since evening, drumming against the old tin roof of the house in a way that made the silence inside feel heavier. Meera sat on the edge of the narrow cot in the room that had once been hers, the same room she had left years ago as a bride. Her suitcase lay half-open near the door. The clothes inside still carried the faint scent of the home she no longer belonged to. Her husband had told her to leave, and she had nowhere else to go. Her mother was long dead. Only her father remained.

He had opened the door without a word when she arrived late that afternoon, rain soaking through her saree. He had looked at her for a long moment, then stepped aside. “Aa jao,” he had said. Come in. Nothing more. He had given her a dry towel, a plate of dal and rice, and told her the room was still hers. Then he had gone back to his chair in the front room and sat in the dark with his tea.