The garden courtyard of the Colombo estate was bathed in twilight gold, every leaf gilded, every breath of air perfumed with jasmine. The fountain in the center whispered softly, its rippling echoes weaving through the hush of approaching evening.

Ruhi stood near the hedges, a figure carved from serenity and ache. The maroon silk of her anarkali shimmered with the last light, brushing her ankles like wine-dark water. Gold thread caught the sun’s dying rays, and the soft curls at her temple glowed amber. Her jhumkas swayed gently each time she breathed.