By morning, the sun filtered through the curtains, casting patterns on the floor. Birds chirped loudly, and the distant sounds of the city reminded her she was still very much in the world. Lakshmi rose early, bathed, and dressed in a pale blue salwar kameez provided by the home. She studied her reflection in the mirror for a moment. Her hair was neatly tied back, her face calm, if a little thinner than before.
You are still here, she told herself. That is enough.
In the dining hall, she joined other residents for breakfast. Conversations flowed gently, unhurried. An elderly woman with silver hair introduced herself as Kamala and asked Lakshmi where she was from. When Lakshmi mentioned Alwar, Kamala’s eyes lit up, and soon they were exchanging memories of dusty roads and temple bells.
It felt strange, almost disloyal, to feel comfort here so quickly. Yet the structure of the place, the quiet respect in every interaction, began to ease something tight inside her chest.
That afternoon, as Lakshmi sat beneath the neem tree with a borrowed book resting in her lap, her phone rang.
The sound startled her. For a moment, she considered letting it ring. She already knew who it would be. Still, she answered.
“Mom?” Riya’s voice came through, unsteady. “Where are you?”
Lakshmi closed her eyes briefly. “I don’t have a home anymore, Riya,” she said, her voice even.
There was a long pause on the other end. She could hear breathing, uneven, then a soft sniff.
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