Mornings in the Kumar house had a strange amnesia to them. By seven a.m., the wreckage of the previous night was swept under an unspoken agreement to pretend it hadn't happened — her mother hummed while making poha, her father read the actual news this time instead of just holding the newspaper, and Krunal ate standing up at the kitchen counter, scrolling his phone with the particular focus of someone determined not to make eye contact with either parent.

Sadhana moved through this practiced normalcy like she always did — showering quickly, ironing her own shirt because she trusted no one else's iron work, tying her hair back into the low, tight bun she wore to the office because loose hair felt like one more thing that could go wrong in a day that already had enough variables.