Chapter 1
Arjun's POV
The air in the hills was sharper that morning, crisp and carrying the faint smell of pine.
Our town was tucked deep in the hill ranges of Uttar Pradesh, where roads curled like ribbons around valleys and winter mornings felt older, slower.
I could see my breath when I stepped out into the yard, frost crunching under my shoes.
Today wasn't just another school day.
It was my farewell day the last time I'd walk into the familiar building as a tenth grader before moving on to the senior section.
Inside, my mother fussed over my shirt collar while my father sat at the table sipping chai, the newspaper spread in front of him.
"Stand still, Arjun," Ma said, tugging the knot of my tie into place.
"I am standing still," I protested, but she gave me that don't argue with me look.
Baba glanced up from his paper. "You're looking smart. All set for the big day?"
I nodded. "Yeah. We're having a small party after school. Teachers, speeches... you know."
They were like that — warm, trusting. They let me roam, let me come home late from football practice, never demanded an explanation beyond "I got caught up."
Sometimes I caught Ma watching me with quiet worry if I was late too often, but she never said much.
The farewell went as expected — speeches, laughter, classmates taking too many pictures, teachers warning us about the next two years.
By the time I got on the school bus, the sky was already beginning to dim, evening slipping down from the hills.
Normally, the ride home followed the main road along the ridge, a safer, smoother route.
But halfway down, we found it blocked — a fallen tree sprawled across the road from the last night's storm.
The driver grumbled and turned the bus onto a narrower side road that twisted through the lower part of the town. I had only been down it once or twice in my life.
It was there that I saw them.
A cluster of women on the roadside, dressed in bright, fancy clothes that didn't belong to this place or this season.
Their makeup was thick, their laughter loud but brittle, their eyes scanning each passing vehicle.
Every now and then, one of them would step forward, waving to cars, calling something I couldn't hear through the bus window.
Then my eyes caught on her.
Or rather — on her hand.
She was waving, and on the inside of her wrist was something dark. At first I thought it was a burn scar.
But the edges were too sharp, too deliberate. Like someone had pressed something hot and round against her skin, leaving a stamp that would never fade.
Before I could look longer, the bus turned a bend, and they were gone.
The rest of the ride passed in the usual blur of hills and scattered lights, and when I got home, Ma was already calling me to dinner, Baba reading on the porch with the light glowing warm against the night.
I didn't mention what I'd seen.
At fifteen, I didn't understand it.
And soon... I forgot.
