After school, Vani took the long way home because the short route cut past the market where her mother used to stand and sell trinkets. The memory of her parents arguing-voices sharp and sudden-was a closed door she had learned to keep shut. When they divorced, Vani had been ten and Maya only four. The silence that followed was painful, but she had chosen it over the alternative: nights filled with shouting and slammed doors. Choosing had felt like saving her sister from a war.
Grandma Lata was awake when Vani returned, sitting by the window with a shawl around her shoulders. Her smile was small and steady. "You're late," she said, but her voice held no scolding-only the tired humor of someone who had watched too many seasons of worry.
Maya ran to Vani and wrapped her arms around her waist. "You brought snacks?" she asked, hopeful.
"Always," Vani said, and the lie tasted like mercy. She handed Maya a small packet of biscuits and watched the child's face light up. For a moment the house felt like a place that could hold laughter.
Later, when the dishes were done and the night settled like a blanket, Vani climbed to the roof. The city spread below in a scatter of lights, and the air smelled faintly of jasmine. Kairo was already there, sitting with his knees pulled up, a thermos between them.
"You okay?" he asked again, because some questions needed asking more than once.
She sat beside him and let the silence answer. "I'm tired," she said finally. "But I'm okay."
He turned to her, eyes reflecting the distant glow. "You don't have to carry it all, Vani. Not alone."
She wanted to tell him everything-the nights she'd stayed up counting coins, the way she sometimes pretended to sleep so Grandma wouldn't worry, the fear that one day she'd fail at keeping everything together. But words felt too heavy to hand over.
Instead she leaned her head on his shoulder, the way a tired child leans into a parent, and let herself be small for a moment. Kairo's arm came around her without hesitation. It was a simple gesture, but it held a promise: not to fix everything, not to erase the past, but to be there when the nights were long.
Below them, the city breathed. Above them, the sky was wide and patient. Vani closed her eyes and for the first time that week let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, she didn't have to do it all by herself .