The house smelled of rosewater, haldi, and the earthy tang of fresh henna. Sunlight streamed through the jaali windows, casting lattice patterns on the carpet where Meher sat, her dupatta carefully pinned to one side, sleeves rolled up as the mehndi artist began her work.

Meher's hands were still, but her eyes flitted everywhere—at the glass bangles stacked on the corner tray, at the marigolds dangling above the arch, and then toward Roshni, who was crouched beside her with a wicked grin.