"I missed you," Meera cried. "I missed Amma. I don't know how to be an adult without her."
Now the house was quiet.
She stood in the doorway of their childhood room, watching Meera arrange marigolds on a small table. Meera hadn't noticed her yet. She was humming—a faint, broken tune—the one their mother used to sing every birthday. Their mother, who had passed away two years ago.
