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He frowned, half-smiling at the melodrama, and typed the phrase that had opened and closed so many doors in their family—"GendaPhool1989"—the scent of marigolds from festival doors, the year she opened her first stall. The screen accepted it. A page unfurled: a list of folders with names—AKASH, RADHA, MITHU. Each file had a date. The earliest was 1969.

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Arman sat very still. The photograph of the uniformed man had a crease across the corner that matched the tear in the letter Savita had kept. The files tightened like a noose and then unraveled into a braid of choices. Savita had kept evidence of attempts, of people who had passed through their lives and left things behind: names that returned like ghosts. He frowned, half-smiling at the melodrama, and typed