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“Amma’s rasam?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.

One night, Amma sat Anjali down. “You’re afraid.”

One evening, a sudden downpour trapped Anjali inside the shed. Meera was already asleep, curled up on a pile of old cushions. Vikram handed her a chipped ceramic cup of ginger tea.

He stopped the wheel. “Anjali. My life is not grand. It’s just this—mud, rain, and a little girl who asks for two stories every night.”