The day dragged on Ishani like a weight she couldn’t shake.

She moved through the familiar rhythm of her chores—folding his shirts exactly the way he liked the collars pressed, arranging his cufflinks in the velvet tray, brewing his preferred black coffee even though he wasn’t there to drink it—yet every motion felt mechanical, hollow. Her mind kept circling back to that single, sleepy murmur: Shree… ruko na…