The bhangra beat thumped through the floor, through Meera’s bones, a mocking counter-rhythm to the frantic hammering of her heart. Her world had narrowed to two points: the empty space by the exit where the silhouette had stood, and the shattered phone in Rohan’s hand. “Meera.” Rohan’s voice cut through the din, sharp with concern. He held the phone gingerly, the cracked screen webbing over the glowing message. “What is this? Who is ‘A’?” The simple question was a lifeline to reality. To this reality—the marigold garlands, the sequined saris, the scent of her wedding feast being prepared. This was real. The