The kettle hissed like a small, tired animal. Vani moved through the kitchen with the kind of quiet that had become a habit-soft footsteps, softer words-so the house would not wake with worry. Grandma Lata slept most mornings, breath shallow and steady, and Vani had learned to keep her voice low as if volume could hold illness at bay.
"Eat, Maya," she whispered, nudging a bowl of rice closer to the little girl. Maya blinked up at her with a grin that still showed the gap where a tooth had fallen out. The sight made Vani's chest ache in a way that was both sharp and warm; the ache was a reminder of why she kept going.
School uniform folded over her arm, blazer smoothed as if she could iron out the day ahead, Vani checked the medicine box one more time. Pills for Grandma, a small bottle of syrup for Maya's cough, a folded list of clinic appointments she hadn't yet been able to pay. Bills were tucked into a drawer like quiet accusations. She counted coins in her head the way other people counted sheep.
Outside, the neighborhood smelled of frying onions and wet pavement. Kairo waited by the gate like he always did-hands shoved into his jacket pockets, eyes scanning the street the way some people scanned the sky for storms. He offered her a thermos without a word. Steam curled up, cardamom and something steadier-home.
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