Chapter 8: The Living or the Dead

Arjun has discovered it.

As the realization dawned, the room seemed to grow colder. I hovered beside him, hope flickering weakly in my chest. Perhaps, at last, someone would fight for me. Perhaps my story was not over. Outside, the evening azaan drifted on the breeze, mingling with the distant clatter of utensils and the soft, sorrowful cry of a koel. In that mingling of day and night, as the old city readied itself for sleep, Arjun stood in my room—my last, fragile hope.

Outside, the azaan faded. Inside, Arjun’s fist closed around the bead. Tomorrow, someone would have to choose: the living, or the dead.