Sunita aunty spent the day in a daze—sitting on the couch in her crumpled saree, pallu fallen, eyes vacant. She hadn’t changed, hadn’t eaten, hadn’t spoken except to whisper Neha’s name every few minutes like a prayer. Neha stayed curled beside her—head on her mother’s lap—silent tears soaking the silk.

Priya watched them both—clinical, detached—while she prepared.