The atmosphere in Pankhudi’s childhood home was a stark contrast to the echoing, cold halls of the Pradhan’s haveli. Here, the air smelled of woodsmoke, fresh milk, and the marigolds from the recent Puja. But for Pankhudi, the peace was a thin veil.

It was the morning after Nakul’s secret visit on the 15th day. The sun was high, but she had stayed in the room, her body feeling heavy and "filled." As she sat on the edge of the old wooden cot—the same one that had creaked rhythmically under Nakul’s weight just hours before—she felt the slow, warm trickle of his departure between her thighs.