"Come here, Meera," she said softly.

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.

Anjali walked to the small altar where their mother’s photo rested, surrounded by wilted flowers from last week. She lit a diya.

The clock struck seven. Time for the birthday ritual. But no mother to cut the cake. No father—he had left years ago. Just the two of them, and the ghost of a song.

"Meera," Anjali whispered.