The early morning air of Amritsar was crisp, carrying the faint scent of tea stalls and diesel from the busy roads leading to the station. Sukhraj walked briskly, his uniform crisp, boots clicking against the pavement, duffel bag slung over one shoulder. For weeks, months even, he had been marching up frozen ridges, crouching behind rocks, listening to the hiss of artillery and the distant rattle of gunfire. And now, finally, he was leaving the base, leaving the mountains, leaving the war, leaving the weight of command and loss behind him for a brief, sacred moment.

As he passed the bustling streets, his eyes, so used to scanning enemy positions and tactical maps, caught on something ordinary yet extraordinary in its own way, a small jewellery store glinting in the morning sun. Displayed in the glass were anklets, silver and gold, delicate, intricate, the tiny bells catching light with every hint of movement. He stopped.