The scent of incense filled the air—warm sandalwood, dried rose petals, and marigold garlands strung across the carved pillars of the ancient Shiv temple. The early morning sun had just begun to cut through the fog, golden rays spilling across the worn stone floor like silent blessings.
Naira Sharma bowed her head before the deity, the hem of her pastel salwar brushing against the dusted ground. Her eyes were closed, lips moving in a silent prayer. Her long hair was damp from her morning shower, curling softly around her shoulders. The mangalsutra of someone else’s future still didn’t grace her throat—she was twenty-four, unmarried, newly minted as a doctor.
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