Page 53 of Scars and Crowns

The memory makes me smile. "I miss you today, Maa."

The words slip out quietly into the empty shop. I imagine what she'd say if she could see this place. Probably that the shelves need dusting already.

I laugh.

Regional fiction belongs along the back wall.

The afternoon light reaches there beautifully. Children's books naturally find their way into the little reading corner. I crouch beside the shelves, arranging colourful picture books at exactly Sara's eye level. The thought makes me grin. She's absolutely going to claim this corner as her kingdom.

I'll probably have to negotiate with her before selling half of these books. I scribble notes onto the back of an old invoice. Need more English readers for older children. History books about Devgarh. Travel guides for tourists staying at the heritage hotel.

Maybe . . . A small table beside the front window. Somewhere people can sit with coffee and read without feeling hurried. Ideas keep arriving faster than I can write them down. Hours pass without me noticing.

By the time sunlight begins shifting across the floor, my back aches pleasantly. Dust streaks both my hands. A smudge of printer's ink has somehow found its way onto my cheek. I finally straighten up and survey the room.

Half the shelves are filled. Half the crates remain unopened. I count them silently. Then laugh. This is impossible. Not the dream. The workload.

One person cannot finish all this alone. Not if I want to open within a month. Not if I still want to walk Sara to school every morning. Pick her up afterwards. Read with her before bed.

I'll need help. Someone patient. Someone who likes children. Someone who won't panic when curious little hands pull books off every shelf in sight.

I sit back on my heels, looking around at the cheerful mess surrounding me.

Open boxes.

Half-filled shelves.

Books everywhere.

Nothing is finished. Nothing is perfect. And yet . . . For the first time in longer than I can remember . . . I don't feel like I'm merely surviving another day. The grief isn't sitting so heavily on my shoulders. The fear has finally loosened its grip. Even exhaustion feels different.

Hopeful.

I smile to myself.

Not because everything is suddenly easy. It isn't. But because somewhere between unpacking books and remembering forgotten dreams . . . I found a familiar feeling waiting quietly for me.

Myself. Or perhaps . . . The beginning of becoming her again.

DEALS

YUVAAN

I'm barely three pages into a contract review when there's a knock on my study door. I don't look up immediately, absently signing the margin of one page before saying, "Come in."

The head maid steps inside, but instead of speaking straight away, she hesitates. That alone is enough to pull my attention away from the file. She has worked in this palace for years. She doesn't interrupt my working hours unless something genuinely requires it.

I set my pen down. "What is it?"

"Hukum" she begins carefully, wringing the end of her dupatta between her fingers. "Anamika didi hasn't come down for lunch." A strange uneasiness stirs inside me.

"She wasn't feeling well?"

"I don't know." She shakes her head. "I knocked twice. She isn't answering the door."

Everything inside me goes still. For one suspended second, the room seems unnaturally quiet. Then my chair scrapes sharply against the floor. I'm already on my feet before she's finished speaking. I don't remember leaving the study. I don't remember crossing the corridors. One moment I'm standing beside my desk. The next I'm outside our bedroom, my hand already pushing the door open before I even think to knock.

The door swings inward. My heart drops. She's sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand gripping the mattress so tightly her knuckles have turned white. Her body sways ever so slightly, as though the room refuses to stay still beneath her.