“I’m so sorry!” she gasped, kneeling among the shards of cobalt blue and burnt umber.

Meera saw the shrine of a life put on hold. She didn’t ask intrusive questions. She simply sat on the floor beside his mother’s cot, placed the bowl down, and began to hum—an old tune, the same one his mother loved.

“I made too much,” she lied. She had made exactly enough for three.

Arjun hesitated at the threshold. Inside, his mother was sleeping. Outside, the world smelled of wet earth and possibility.