Behind him, wrapped in a mustard-yellow bedsheet, was the aaina .
Meera scrambled, nearly spilling the boiling cardamom tea onto her fingers. She set the brass tray on the low table just as her father, Ravi, ducked under the lintel. He was a tall, quiet man who smelled of dust and office files. But today, he wasn’t alone. aaina 1993
The mirror went dark. Meera fell backward, her palm stinging. When she looked, a small, red burn in the exact shape of a peacock’s beak was blooming on her skin. Behind him, wrapped in a mustard-yellow bedsheet, was
Not in the reflection. In the room.