The plastic stick containing the absolute truth of her changing reality was slipped back into its hiding place with the practiced, soundless precision of a seasoned captive. Shivanya did not let a single outward muscle twitch betray the seismic shift occurring beneath her skin. She wrapped herself carefully in a simple, unadorned cotton saree—its muted colors deliberately chosen to match the somber, half-mourning atmosphere of the household and to discreetly shroud the extensive, purpling bruises painting her limbs.

By the time she stepped out into the grand central hall, the pale, fragile light of early morning was filtering through the high arched windows, heralding the dawn of Karwa Chauth.