Two years earlier, in a village where monsoon mud still crusted sandals, Raina had met Aarav. He was quick with a joke and slower with truth. They married under a string of marigolds, in a ceremony the size of a small festival. Raina believed in small certainties: the kettle would whistle, the mango tree would fruit, Aarav’s hands would return to hers at the end of the day. Then the first quiet came—not loud, not dramatic—just subtle, like salt dissolved in tea.