The days had blurred into a strange, hollow rhythm.

Sitara moved through them like a ghost, present but not present, her body going through the motions while her mind remained somewhere else—floating above her, watching from a distance, unable to feel anything except the dull ache of resignation. She had returned to the servant quarters the evening after the wedding, her bag in her hand, her face composed, her eyes empty. Her father had asked her about the trip, about the project, about Kabir. She had answered in monosyllables, offering nothing, revealing nothing.