It was evening time—the sun was setting down. The faint breeze carried the scent of champa flowers blooming in the palace garden, mingling with the ancient silence of its stone walls.
Diya stood near one of the jharokhas, her dupatta gently brushing against the carved sandstone railing as she gazed toward the distant rooftops of her own home. It wasn’t far—just a few lanes away—but today, for the first time, she hadn’t gone back. She had informed her father yesterday about her arrival here, and though he had promised to pick her up, some urgent meetings had kept him occupied.
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