The morning air held the faintest hint of chill, dew still glistening on the mango leaves outside Ayushi’s window. The lane beyond her house stirred awake—familiar, mundane sounds stitching together the everyday village soundtrack. The milkman’s bell rang impatiently, his voice raised in a tired call. Aluminum cans clattered as someone hammered the roadside stall shut. A lone scooter coughed and sputtered to life before settling into a distant hum. Women swept their doorsteps with slow, rhythmic swishes, harmonizing with the soft chorus of roosters and sparrows.

But inside Ayushi’s house, the air felt too arranged—like a fabric pulled tight and ironed smooth, an invisible stage set overnight. Each family member was an actor with rehearsed lines, painted smiles, and secrets tucked away in locked hearts. The house was a theater, and beneath the performances hummed an undercurrent of unease.