The outhouse had become Vanya’s sanctuary. A single-story cottage at the edge of the Khurana estate, its walls still smelled faintly of old wood and jasmine from the vines crawling up the windows. The main house loomed in the distance like a palace, but here, in her two small rooms and narrow balcony, she could almost pretend she had escaped it all.

Her days had a rhythm now. Wake up to the sound of peacocks somewhere in the trees. Twist her hair into a loose bun. Drape a modest cotton saree. Brew chai for herself. Walk to the bus stop alone. Smile for her students, and grade their assignments. Return to the outhouse, close the gate behind her, and exhale. Talk to Dr. Mehta about books, travel, and timelines—safe things. Sleep.