THEN
Priya was in the kitchen. Filter coffee steamed beside a plate of toast. Her phone buzzed on the counter with a video call.
"He's still asleep, thank God," Priya whispered so soft it wouldn't wake anyone.
Kavya's cheery face filled the screen. "You sound tired. Did he keep you up again?"
Priya sighed, running a hand through her hair. "No, no. Just stress. He's got that big presentation today. And yesterday some rickshaw driver tried to short-change me fifty rupees. It's silly, but it adds up."
Kavya laughed. "Only in Niraya do autorickshaws cause existential crises. Chill. It's a normal day."
"I hope so." Priya took a deep breath. "I'm making Reyaan that weird broccoli curry for his tiffin. You know, his favorite."
Kavya checked her watch. "Listen, I've got a client near your block at ten. I'll swing by for twenty minutes. Say hi, steal some of your cooking magic."
"Oh, really? That'd be nice." Priya said, smiling.
"Great. I'll text when I leave. Don't burn the kitchen while I'm en route," Kavya waved. "Talk later, okay?" "Okay. Bye, Kavi."
Priya hung up. Just a normal day.
Morning sunlight sliced the room into golden bars. Outside, Niraya stirred — rickshaw horns, temple bells, the familiar low chant from Vaishali. Ordinary sounds. Maybe too ordinary.
Reyan sipped his coffee and frowned. The air felt wrong — just a fraction colder than it should be. Maybe he was worrying for no reason.
Crayon drawings still clung to the fridge: stick people, a crooked sun, a purple dog that might have been a cat. Silent promises on paper.
"Papa…"
His daughter padded in, rubbing her eyes, clutching her rabbit. Reyan crouched. She slipped into his arms, warm and half-asleep.
"Don't be late today," she whispered. "You promised."
"I won't," he said, kissing her hair. Strawberry shampoo — Priya's favourite.
"You have to promise me something too."
"What?"
"Eat your breakfast. All of it."
"Even the crusts?"
"Especially the crusts. That's where the superpowers hide."
She laughed, and for a heartbeat the morning felt whole.
Priya emerged from the kitchen, drying her hands. Seven years of knowing him meant she could read his face without words.
"If something feels wrong today," she said softly, "call me. Promise?"
He nodded. "Promise."
She didn't look fully convinced, but she let it be.
Reyan paused in the doorway, filing the scene away — the sunlight on the wall, the smell of toast, the small, safe frame of his family. "You'll come back soon, right?" his daughter asked.
"Before you even miss me," he lied.
By 4:30 p.m. the apartment had settled into its routine. Priya's daughter lay on the sofa watching cartoons; Priya had finished chores and was finally watching TV.
Her phone buzzed with an incoming call from Kavya. Priya answered, smiling, thinking her sister was confirming her departure.
"Hey, Kavi, are you on your way?"
Kavya's breath came quick and thin. "Priya, I'm almost home—I mean, I'm almost at your apartment block. I just got out of the taxi."
"Wait," Priya said, frowning at the TV, which had just cut to a frantic news alert. "Hey, don't come down. Please. Did you see the news?"
"What news? I was on the phone until two minutes ago—oh my God." Kavya's voice went small.
Priya's blood turned to ice. "O my God, don't come out of the taxi! Please, don't! Get back in!"
"Oh, come on! I'm already out of the cab and paid the driver while I phoned you," Kavya argued.
Her voice trembled as she saw people attacking each other; her eyes widened in horror at the chaos erupting around her.
"Priya, people are running. There's—"