Anjali took her in—simple churidar , no makeup, a faint scent of sandalwood. But her eyes were sharp. They had seen grief. Anjali knew that look.

Anjali turned to him. In the dim light, he looked both like his father and utterly himself.

One night, unable to sleep, Anjali sat on the verandah. Vikram found her there.

Naa Vennela, Naa Poru (My Moonlight, My Sunshine)

Vikram sat beside her. “Tell me.”