The drawing room was lit too brightly for Ayushi’s eyes. The curtains were pulled wide, morning sun spilling across the floor where a thali of sweets and flowers had been arranged with rehearsed neatness. Incense coiled upward in grey ribbons, its sweetness clinging to every wall. On the low table, Panditji’s kundlis lay open—yellowed pages whispered as his fingers flicked through astrological charts. He hummed in approval, tapping a page, the sound oddly final.

The light seemed to insist on clarity — on showing every crease, every anxious line. It fell in slabs across the polished floor, setting the marigold garlands aglow as if they themselves were small suns. The incense left a thin sweetness in the back of the throat that made the mouth feel unnatural — a sugar coating over the sourness that pooled low in Ayushi’s stomach.