The first few weeks passed in a blur of small adjustments. Their quarter, once bare and echoing, slowly grew into a lived-in space. A cotton rug found its place near the bed, brass utensils gleamed in the kitchen and the faint scent of agarbatti every morning from Sarvari’s puja lingered in the air.

Each morning, the sound of the bugle outside pulled Sukhraj to his duty. He left in his neatly pressed uniform, boots shining and eyes calm, carrying the weight of his responsibilities with quiet discipline. Sarvari would stand at the door, watching him walk away with the other soldiers at four in the morning, her hands folded around the edge of her dupatta, her heart full yet steady.