She lived in a narrow house painted the color of stormlight, with a balcony that faced the harbor and a garden that refused to be useful. Herbs tangled with late roses, and lavender grew in stubborn clumps near the back gate. People said Nayantara tended the plants more like a friend than a gardener—speaking to them in a language of small ministrations, of trimmed stems and whispered thanks. When storms came, she walked the lanes with a lantern, looking for those who had left their windows open or their boats untied. She did not ask for thanks. Gratitude, in Kamapisachi, was a thing traded like coins; Nayantara preferred gifts you could not spend.
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In the months that followed, Nayantara and Lila stitched a map of Arman’s absence: places he had visited, people who had seen him, canvases that bore his mark and a certain loneliness. Each discovery lit another question. Why had he not returned to Kamapisachi? Was he hiding, or had he been kept from returning?
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