One afternoon, the house was unusually still. The siblings were at school, their laughter replaced by the rhythmic tick of the old clock in the hallway. Dadi slept in her rocking chair, her soft snores blending with the rustle of the garden leaves.

Ruhi sat at the old wrought-iron table under the amaltas tree, the one that shed yellow blossoms like golden confetti whenever the wind stirred. Her notebook lay open, pages filled with careful handwriting — lesson plans, vocabulary lists, doodles of elephants and stars the children had drawn in the margins. A faint breeze lifted the corner of a page, carrying with it the scent of earth and ripening guavas.