The chapati was gone. The counter wiped clean. The rolling pin back in its drawer.

Ananya washed her hands under the tap, the cool water rinsing away the flour and the ghost of Vijay’s warmth. She watched the white swirl down the drain, and for a moment, she saw his hand under hers, the calluses rough against her knuckles. She shut off the water. Dried her hands on the edge of her cotton saree, the simple yellow one Rohit said made her look like a schoolteacher. She left the kitchen light on for him, a small, dutiful beacon in the dark hall, and walked to her bedroom.