The warm steam of the medicated oils still clung faintly to my skin, though the bruises beneath throbbed dully as if to remind me they were yet unhealed. Meera sat across from me on the low wooden cot, her gaze fixed on her hands, now washed clean of the dust and grime of our ordeal.

A simple lehenga, soft in fabric though unadorned, graced her frame—a pale hue of pink that lent her an innocence she should never have had to lose. I, too, was clad in one such garment, modest and strangely comforting, though my heart knew no peace.