#rc ram

Your eyes fluttered open. Morning sunlight spilled across the room, catching the dust in the air and the lingering gold threads of your wedding attire — the same one you had fallen asleep in, still wrapped around you like a promise you weren’t ready for.

Three maids stood by the doorway.

Their giggles died the instant they realized you were awake.

One clapped a hand over her mouth.

Another tried, and failed, to smooth her expression into something respectful.

You pushed yourself upright, feeling the stiffness in your spine.

Your hair was still braided with flowers, though many had wilted and fallen onto the pillow.

“Oh…” you murmured, embarrassed. “I didn’t change. I must have—”

The youngest maid burst into a soft giggle again, hiding behind her friend’s shoulder.

Your cheeks warmed.

You suddenly understood what they assumed.

One of the older maids hushed the girl sharply in Bengali, but not before another whispered something quick and teasing — the sort of tone women used when talking about love or secrets or… beds.

Your embarrassment deepened.

Your lips parted as though to explain — that nothing at all had happened, that you’d simply collapsed from exhaustion — but the words felt strange on your tongue.

This was your wedding morning.

Explaining felt worse than letting them believe the wrong thing.

So you only nodded faintly.

“Good morning,” you said instead.

The maids bowed their heads.

The oldest stepped forward. “We brought clothes for you, memsahib.”

Before you could respond, the youngest one whispered another mischievous comment. The older maid nudged her again, harder, scolding quietly. The girl mumbled something half-apologetic, half-amused.

You didn’t understand the words.

But you understood the tone perfectly.

The maids glanced at you again — not unkindly, but with the sort of bright curiosity reserved for a girl their age who’d just begun a marriage.

And you suddenly felt very far from home.

“Would you like help changing, memsahib?” the older maid asked, gentler now.

You nodded, smoothing a trembling hand over the crumpled silk of your clothing.

“Yes… please.”

As they stepped forward to help untie the heavy fabric, the maids fell into soft whispers again, their words flowing around you like a river you could hear but not enter.

This time, you didn’t try to interpret them.

You only lowered your gaze and let them unfasten the remnants of yesterday.

The days after the wedding night slipped by like pages turning without ink.

A week passed, quiet and carefully structured, as if the household had conspired to shield you newlyweds from each other.

You learned the rhythm of Calcutta long before you learned the rhythm of your husband.

Every morning:

The courtyard woke first.

Then the bells.

Then, somewhere behind carved wooden doors, Ram.

You rarely saw him at sunrise — only the faint sound of water for his ablutions, the rustle of priests passing through the corridor, occasional sandalwood drifting beneath the threshold. By the time you stepped out of your room, he was already gone to the temple.

Every afternoon:

Meetings.

Visiting dignitaries.

Quiet instructions exchanged in Bengali you could not understand.

His presence flitted through the house like a shadow you kept just missing.

Every evening:

You ate at the same table.

Sat at opposite ends of the same room.

Spoke only when absolutely required — short, polite exchanges that revealed nothing and protected everything.

Ram was never unkind.

But kindness wasn’t closeness.

Sometimes you saw him tilt his head, pressing fingers to his brow, the faintest wince crossing his features before he hid it behind a composed breath. The eye patch became as familiar as his silence.

Night after night, your bed remained untouched except by you.

And the household noticed.

The maids whispered more quietly now.

The older servants bowed more deeply.

The younger ones stared with wide, guilt-colored eyes when you entered a room unexpectedly.

You were not lonely, not exactly.

You were untethered.

As if you’d stepped into a life that had been built long before you and were expected to walk it without knowing its map.

The only constant was Ram’s distance.

Not cold.

Not cruel.

But deliberate.

A distance he seemed devoted to maintaining, as though nearness itself carried a danger.

By the end of the week, you could no longer tell whether you started to take a liking of him…

or simply missed being seen.

On a chilly morning a servant announced:

“Memsahib… the Dozen have come to greet you.”

Your heart dropped.

The Basus. The Doobays. The Rai. The Thakurs and the Sharmas.

Ram’s entire social circle.

The people whose approval mattered more in Calcutta than any crown.

You selected a dress that had been altered for you — English in its structure, high-necked and long-sleeved, but made of pale silk that caught the light softly. The embroidery was minimal, confined to the cuffs and hem: motifs borrowed, not claimed.

But you did allow the pallu — a length of silk had been sewn into it, falling from one shoulder in the manner of a pallu. It was lighter than the rest of the fabric, embroidered only at the edge, meant to be arranged or ignored as you wished.

The maids worked in quiet efficiency, fastening buttons, smoothing fabric. No one commented. No one questioned your choice.

When you were finally ready, you stood alone before the mirror.

You looked composed.

Appropriate.

Neither defiant nor submissive.

It was what the meeting required.

As you turned toward the door, you understood the decision for what it was — not refusal, not assimilation, but preparation.

You stepped into the corridor knowing you would be read carefully.

And determined, for once, to be read on your own terms.

The servant led you through a warm corridor into a spacious drawing room decorated with oil lamps. The moment you entered, the room shifted — twelve influential faces rising as one.

The drawing room felt too large for you.

Twelve of the most powerful people in Calcutta sat arranged in a half-circle, their silks and gold catching the morning light like a wall of quiet authority.

You stepped inside, hands clasped.

Vidya Basu rose first, as poised as a queen in a red Banarasi sari.

“At last,” she said, each syllable perfectly placed. “Ram Doobay’s bride.”

Her words floated gently, but carried weight.

You bowed your head slightly.

“Good morning.”

Saraswati Basu, her expression softer but no less perceptive, murmured something to her sister,

Radha Basu leaned forward, chin on her hand, mumbling something back.

Heat rose in your cheeks.

Vidya’s eyes narrowed, catching the faintly askew pleat in your dress.

“Your pallu,” she commented. “It should fall over the left shoulder. We must maintain propriety. Little gestures travel far.”

You touched the fabric instinctively.

“Oh—I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

Saraswati stepped forward kindly.

“There is nothing to apologize for. You are very new to our world.”

Raj Doobay, Ram’s cousin, gave you a gentle smile.

Radha observed your face “You look overwhelmed,” she said kindly. “That is normal after a Bengali wedding. We are… spirited.”

You let out a small breath.

“Yes. It was beautiful, just—very different from what I know.”

From behind her, Amrita Rai spoke in her honeyed, poised voice.

“The ceremonies you saw that night represent centuries of tradition,” she said.

“I hope you will come to understand why they matter.”

Amrita’s eyes swept over your face — not cruelly, but analytically, as though reading a map.

Without waiting for a response, Erit Thakur stepped forward.

“You will be observed closely,” he said.

“Ram’s marriage is not only personal. It is political. You carry responsibilities now.”

You stiffened.

“I… will try my best.”

Mohan Prasad, ever light-hearted, chuckled.

“Thakur, you speak as if she has been elected prime minister. Let her breathe.”

The other gave him a flat look.

“I am merely stating the truth.”

Anil Sharma, Deviya’s uncle, spoke next — measured and slow.

“You must understand that this marriage was unexpected. Many had hoped Ram would choose a Bengali bride.”

You swallowed.

“I see…”

Mr. Dixit, the elderly scholar, leaned on his cane and studied you with sharp interest.

“You are educated?”

His tone implied doubt.

“Yes,” you answered gently. “Quite.”

“Hm.”

He did not sound convinced.

Mr. Mahajan, more diplomatic, intervened.

“Forgive Mr. Dixit. He mistrusts anyone who did not grow up reading the Vedas in the original Sanskrit.”

Dixit harrumphed.

Mahajan continued, “But we hope this marriage will bring harmony between worlds.”

Amrita murmured, “Harmony takes effort.”

Erit added, “And discipline.”

Vidya concluded, “And understanding.”

You nodded politely to each of them, though your heart fluttered painfully in your chest.

You felt like a display object — examined, questioned, measured against a list of invisible standards you haven’t been given.

The discussion turned to household matters — temple patronage, the new marriage, the foreign press

Vidya spoke.

“Before Ram arrives,” she said pleasantly, “there is a small matter of clarity.”

You straightened.

Saraswati smiled — the kind of smile that suggested generosity rather than comfort.

“You come from a place where marriage is immutable,” she said.

“A bond meant to endure, regardless of season or sentiment.”

You nodded carefully.

“Yes. It is… not easily dissolved.”

Radha Basu leaned forward slightly.

“Then you will understand,” she said, “why discretion is essential here. A wife’s conduct reflects not only her household, but the Dozen itself.”

The words were mild.

The expectation was not.

You felt the room narrow around you.

“I intend no harm,” you said quietly.

“I wish only to learn.”

Amrita Rai intervened smoothly.

“And learning often begins with restraint.”

Deviya Sharma had been silent until then.

She lifted her gaze.

Her eyes moved over you with careful attention — not invasive, not unkind. You noted the way you held yourself, the quiet dignity in your posture, the composure worn like a borrowed garment.

Then she spoke — softly.

“She has beauty,” Deviya said.

“Not merely in appearance.”

The room stilled.

Deviya’s tone held no envy.

Only recognition.

“A woman who carries uncertainty so gracefully,” she continued, “is rarely frivolous.”

You felt heat rise to your cheeks — unsure whether you had been defended or examined.

Before you could respond, footsteps echoed in the corridor.

A voice cut across the room. Calm. Steady. Authoritative.

“That will do.”

All heads turned.

Ram stood at the entrance.

Tall. Composed.

Burgundy-colored kurta immaculate. Expression unreadable.

The room shifted immediately — even Vidya Basu straightened a little.

Deviya’s gaze left you at once.

It went to him.

Ram’s gaze moved slowly across the group, then landed briefly on you.

He didn’t smile. But his presence steadied you.

“This is not an inquiry,” he said quietly. “And she is not on trial.”

Vidya bowed her head. “We intended no harm.”

“Hm,” Ram replied in a way that suggested otherwise.

He stepped closer to you, not touching you, but close enough that the Dozen understood the conversation was over.

As you turned to follow Ram, you felt it — that sensation of being studied again.

Deviya’s eyes met yours briefly.

There was no smile.

No challenge.

Only a quiet, unsettling understanding — as if she knew exactly where you stood in this house…

…and how precarious that place was.

And you realized something you could not unlearn:

Deviya had measured you — not as a rival, but as someone whose presence mattered.

And that was somehow more unsettling.

It was when Ram and you intended to leave that you noticed it.

Deviya’s gaze.

Not dramatically.

Not insistently.

Just long enough.

Her eyes lingered — a breath too long — before lowering again.

No one reacted.

But you noticed.

Her longing eyes.

Her dry, parted lips.

And though he did not look back.

But the look remained.

And you carried it with you into the courtyard — a quiet weight you couldn’t yet name.

Ram didn’t look directly at you— but his voice softened by a degree. “They mean well,” he said. “Even when they… behave otherwise.”

The courtyard had just emptied of guests — Vidya’s gentle farewell, Radha’s sharp curiosity, Mr. Mahajan’s endless questions still lingering in the air. You stood near the veranda, hands clasped, feeling the quiet of the house press in around you.

Ram was already turning away, preparing to disappear again into the temple wing.

“Ram,” you called—soft, but steady. “May I… have a word?”

He paused.

Then nodded once.

He followed you to the garden path, where sunlight filtered through mango leaves. Neither of you sat. The air felt too uncertain for comfort.

You began.

“Everyone today kept asking how I am settling. And I realized I don’t even know what ‘settling’ means here.”

Ram’s expression didn’t change, but something about his posture grew more attentive.

“In England,” you continued carefully, “marriage… is meant to be a bond that is not easily broken. A household is built around it. A life is shaped by it.”

He nodded.

“That is true here as well,” he said. “But differently.”

Your brows lifted.

Ram looked toward the garden wall, as if searching for the right words.

“In my faith,” he said quietly, “marriage is not only companionship. It is a path. A discipline. A promise made not just to one another, but to dharma — to duty. Two souls bound to walk with care, with honesty, with devotion.”

The sincerity of his voice struck you unexpectedly.

It was beautiful.

Painfully beautiful.

And painfully distant from the reality between you.

You looked away, swallowing.

Ram noticed.

“Have I upset you?” he asked softly.

A moment passed before you answered.

“No,” you said, shaking your head gently.

“Only…” your voice thinned.

“Only reminded me that such a bond was never meant to be mine.”

Ram’s breath shifted — not sharply, but deeply, as though something in your words unsettled him.

He didn’t correct you.

He didn’t comfort you.

He simply stood there, the weight of your truth settling between you like dusk.

After a long silence, he said quietly:

“You deserve a peace that feels like your own, Y/N. Even if we learn how to reach it slowly.”

Your heart ached — not because he rejected you, but because he was trying, in his own restrained way, not to wound you further.

Ram stepped back.

“I must speak with Mr. Vaish,” he said softly. “But… if you ever require my time, you may ask. I will not turn away.”

It wasn’t romance.

But it was, perhaps, the first fragile thread of understanding.

Then he walked past you, leaving you alone with your breath unsteady and your mind spinning.

The servant bowed.

“Memsahib… General De Clare requests an audience.”

Your fingers tightened around the edge of your dress.

You forced a steady breath.

“Let him in.”

The door opened with a soft creak, and Christian De clare stepped inside — tall, immaculate, carrying the quiet confidence of a man accustomed to commanding both rooms and armies.

His smile was courteous.

But his eyes… his eyes assessed everything.

“Mrs. Doobay,” he greeted, inclining his head. “May I extend my congratulations?”

“Thank you, General,” You said, careful and polite.

Christian clasped his hands behind his back, posture perfect.

“You must forgive the unexpected intrusion,” he said. “I thought it important that we meet — sooner rather than later.”

You nodded, unsure why that sent a small shiver down your spine.

“I appreciate your kindness,” you offered.

“Kindness?”

His smile deepened, not quite reaching his eyes.

“Not kindness. Consider it… guidance.”

You hesitated.

“Guidance?”

He took a slow turn about the room, studying the carved furniture, the painted ceiling, the garden beyond the window — as if these things held secrets he already knew.

“I have known Ram for quite some time now,” Christian said calmly. “His family even longer. The Doobays are remarkable people. Brilliant. Loyal. Fiercely principled.”

His gaze slid back to you.

“And not always easy to understand — especially for someone newly arrived in their world.”

A gentle warning wrapped in silk.

You straightened.

“I’m trying my best.”

“Oh, I am certain you are.”

Christian’s voice softened.

“I only wish to prepare you.”

“For what?” you asked, your voice almost a whisper.

Christian considered you carefully.

“For this city,” he said first. “For its politics. For the weight your marriage now carries.”

He took a step closer — not threatening, but close enough that you felt the magnitude of his presence.

“Calcutta,” he murmured, “remembers everything. Every alliance. Every misstep. Every small shift in loyalty.”

Your heart thudded.

“You will find friends, Mrs. Doobay,” he continued gently. “But you will also find… watchers. People who smile and bow and inquire after your health — while noting every detail.”

That did unsettle you.

Christian noticed.

His expression warmed, almost reassuring.

“Do not fear. I am not your enemy,” he said. “In fact, I may be one of the few ready to help you navigate all this.”

You blinked.

“Help me?”

He nodded once.

“Ram’s world is older than ours,” he said quietly. “Layered. Complex. Woven with bonds you cannot yet see. Bonds that, if misunderstood, can lead you to assume something false… or miss something true.”

His voice dropped to a thoughtful murmur.

“People will expect you to know what you do not. They will expect you to handle what you have never seen.”

You swallowed.

“Why tell me this?” you asked softly.

Christian’s answer was simple.

“Because you are far from home,” he said. “And because it is better to walk into a storm knowing it is coming — rather than thinking the sky is clear.”

He gave you a final, courteous bow.

“Good day, Mrs. Doobay. And welcome.”

A pause.

“…Truly.”

The door closed quietly behind him.

Leaving you standing in the sunlight, unsure whether you had just received a welcome,

a warning,

or something in between.

Something in your chest felt steadier — not joyful, but determined.

If you were to remain here, you would not remain a ghost in your own marriage.

The house had long settled into night when you found yourself wandering.

Sleep would not come.

The corridors felt too large, too silent — as though the walls themselves were listening.

That was when you saw them.

Two maids stood near the end of the passage, heads bent together, whispering urgently in front of a closed door. At the sound of your steps, they startled — guilt written plainly across their faces.

“What are you doing here?” you asked sharply.

The tone surprised even you.

The maids bowed quickly, murmuring apologies, scattering down the corridor like birds disturbed from a ledge.

You exhaled, intending to turn away.

Then you heard his voice.

Low. Controlled.

Ram.

You froze.

The door before you was not fully closed — just barely ajar, light spilling through the narrow gap. You did not mean to listen. You did not mean to stay.

But another voice rose — unsteady, trembling.

Deviya.

You could not understand the words. Bengali flowed between them — urgent, fractured — but meaning carried without language. Ram’s voice was careful, measured, as if holding something dangerous between his hands.

Deviya spoke again, sharper now — then broke.

Silence followed.

Your breath caught.

Through the narrow opening, you saw movement. Ram stepped closer. Deviya’s shoulders shook once — twice — before he reached for her.

Not hurried.

Not desperate.

He drew her into his arms.

Deviya’s face disappeared against his chest, and Ram lowered his head, pressing a kiss to her hair — a gesture so familiar, so intimate, it felt older than the room itself.

Protective.

Private.

You looked away at once.

Your heart pounded — not with jealousy, not yet — but with something colder. Understanding.

You stepped back silently, retreating down the corridor until the voices faded, until the door was only a door again.

Whatever place you held in this house…

It had been built on ground that belonged to another woman.

You weren’t even aware of your feet moving until you reached the narrow corridor behind the inner courtyard — the part of the house you had never once entered. The air there smelled faintly of turmeric, oil lamps, and fabric drying in the sun.

Soft voices drifted from behind a half-open door.

Laughing.

Chattering.

Normal life — the kind you couldn’t seem to touch.

Your heart thudded.

You hesitated only one breath.

Then you pushed the door open.

The room froze.

Five maids sat cross-legged on the floor, sorting saris and oiling hair braids. One girl was mid-sentence; the words died on her tongue the moment she saw you.

Three of them scrambled to stand.

One dropped the brass comb in her hand.

Another tugged her veil down as if she had been caught doing something improper.

“Ma—madam?” the eldest stammered.

“We… we did not expect—this is not… you shouldn’t—”

“I know,” you said.

Your voice came out softer than you intended — not commanding, not angry.

Just… overwhelmed.

The maids looked terrified, and that made your chest ache even more. You raised your hands slightly, as if you were the one intruding — because you were.

“I’m sorry,” you said breathlessly.

“I shouldn’t have come in like this. But I… I need help.”

The room stilled again, but differently this time — not frightened stillness, but startled curiosity.

You swallowed.

“I want to understand my husband,” you said.

“Not because someone told me to. Not for appearances. I just…”

Your voice trembled, embarrassingly.

“I want this marriage to work.”

Something shifted in the maids’ faces — not warmth yet, but recognition.

A woman asking other women to help her survive her new life.

The youngest maid, barely more than a girl, whispered,

“You… want to know about Ram-babu?”

You nodded.

The maids exchanged glances — hesitant, startled, almost flattered.

“He wakes before sunrise,” one said quietly.

Another added, “He drinks ginger-tulsi tea after prayers.”

A third, softer, “He prefers quiet in the mornings. Too much noise gives him headaches.”

Your breath hitched.

Headaches.

An explanation for the eye patch — or at least the one he offered.

You tucked that away.

“And…” you asked carefully, “is there anything expected of a wife in your customs? Something I should know? Something I should not do?”

The elder maid’s face softened.

“The only thing expected,” she said gently, “is sincerity. You are already doing it.”

You blinked.

The words hit harder than they should have.

Then — very unexpectedly — another maid gestured to an embroidered stool.

“Sit, madam,” she offered.

“Please.”

The invitation wasn’t formal.

It was human.

You sat.

And for a moment, you felt like the room exhaled with you.

And for the first time since arriving, one of the maids smiled at you — not out of duty, but out of shared womanhood.

You returned to your room while the house still slept.

You sat on the edge of the bed, hands folded in your lap, staring at nothing. The night clung to you — not as fear, but as understanding.

You thought of Deviya’s voice breaking.

Of Ram’s arms closing around another woman with practiced care.

Of the kiss pressed into dark hair — not hurried, not secretive.

Tender.

There had been no betrayal in it.

That, somehow, hurt more.

You had married a man who was already bound — not by law, not by promise, but by history. And yet the ring rested on your finger all the same, solid and undeniable.

You closed your eyes.

I am his wife, you reminded yourself.

Not in defiance.

In truth.

And truth, you knew now, did not guarantee warmth. It only demanded honesty.

When you rose, you did so quietly — with resolve.

If there was space in this marriage, you would step into it gently.

If there was distance, you would not fill it with resentment.

If love was not meant for you…

then you would offer something steadier in its place.

Respect.

Care.

Presence.

By the time you wrapped your shawl around your shoulders and stepped into the pale hush of dawn, your hands no longer trembled.

You were ready to give a blessing you did not expect to receive.

Your hands trembled as you prepared — a tiny bowl of sandalwood paste, a clean cotton cloth, your shawl wrapped tightly against the dawn breeze.

You stepped quietly into the veranda.

Ram was already there.

Standing beneath the open sky.

Returning from prayer, shadows of early light brushing his cream-colored kurta.

He paused when he saw you.

Not annoyed — surprised.

“You are awake early,” he said.

You nodded, keeping your breath steady.

“I consider it as my duty as your wife to start my day with your gracious presence.”

Something flickered in his eyes — the first hint of warmth, fragile as a wick catching flame.

You stepped closer.

Hesitant.

Hopeful.

“I learned,” you whispered, “that wives offer their husbands a blessing before they leave.”

Ram inhaled sharply — barely audible, but real.

You raised the cloth, your fingers trembling.

“May I?”

A long silence.

Finally, quietly — almost reverently:

“Yes.”

Your thumb touched the sandalwood to his forehead.

Warm skin beneath your fingertips.

A faint breath from him — not resistance… something closer to surrender.

When you stepped back, your pulse hammered in your ears.

Ram didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Then—

“Thank you,” he said.

Soft.

Sincere.

A tone she had not heard from him before.

He looked at you — really looked — with an expression that held no duty, no distance… only quiet acknowledgement.

And for the first time since you married him, you felt the smallest shift in the world:

He saw you.

When your hand withdrew, Ram lowered his eyes — not in discomfort… but almost in respect.

“May your day be peaceful,” you whispered.

Ram exhaled, slow, controlled.

“And yours,” he replied.

And as he left, you caught it:

A softness at the corner of his mouth.

So faint you might have imagined it.

But you didn’t think you did.

The veranda was quiet after the blessing.

Ram bowed his head slightly, then stepped back as if to leave — but suddenly his breath caught. His hand rose to his temple, fingers pressing near the edge of the eye patch.

It was small. Subtle.

But you saw it.

A sharp, fleeting wince.

A tightening of his jaw.

A flicker of something dark beneath the surface.

“Are you—” you began.

He straightened instantly, mask sliding back into place.

“I’m fine.”

His voice was too controlled.

Too quick.

The maids, who had been discreetly nearby, exchanged panicked glances.

One whispered urgently, “Madam, please… give him a little space. It passes.”

It passes.

As if this was a known thing.

A rule.

An unspoken danger.

But Ram lifted a hand — calming, not harsh.

“It is only a headache,” he said quietly.

He was speaking to you, not the maids.

“Nothing for you to worry about.”

His tone was gentle… but final.

You didn’t push.

But something cold and curious curled in your ribs.

If it were just a headache,

why had the maids tensed like frightened birds?

Why had his eye — beneath the patch — seemed to almost glow for half a heartbeat?

Ram left with the headache still clinging to him.

He did not look back.

The corridor swallowed the sound of his steps, and with it, whatever fragile closeness had tried to form between you. You remained where you were long after the room fell quiet again.

You did not cry.

You felt… clarified.

That night, you wrote to your parents.

Dearest Mother and Father,

Calcutta is unlike anything I imagined — beautiful, demanding, and deeply ordered. My husband is devoted to his duties and to his faith. He treats me with courtesy and respect, and I am learning how things are done here.

Please do not worry. I am safe. I am well provided for. I am… settling.

You folded the letter carefully.

Settling was not happiness.

But it was not defeat either.

When you rang for your maid, the girl appeared at once, eyes lowered.

“Yes, madam?”

You studied her for a moment before speaking.

“I want to understand this house better,” you said.

“The schedules. The customs. Who speaks to whom, and when.”

The maid glanced up — just briefly.

“These things are usually handled for you—”

“I know,” You said gently.

“But I want to know them myself. Not a whisper shall spread without my awareness.”

A pause.

Not defiance.

Not ambition.

Just intention.

“You will help me,” You continued.

“Quietly. When it is convenient. No one else needs to be aware.”

You reached for the small jewelry box on the table, selecting a modest piece — not extravagant, but meaningful — and placed it in the maid’s hands.

“For your discretion,” you added.

The maid swallowed, then bowed.

“Yes, madam.”

When you were alone again, you went to the window.

Somewhere beyond the walls, Ram prayed.

Somewhere else, another woman mourned.

And here — in the space between — you learned the shape of the house you now lived in.

Not to claim it.

Not yet.

But to make sure you were never lost inside it again.