The afternoon heat hung heavy over the small house, a thick blanket of humidity that smelled of damp earth and old wood. Reena sat in the dimness of the bedroom, the only light filtering through a tattered lace curtain that cast jagged shadows across the peeling wallpaper. Her shoulders slumped, the weight of four months of sleepless nights etched into the hollows beneath her eyes. In her arms, the infant stirred, a small, demanding bundle of warmth.

She shifted her weight, the cotton of her thin sari sliding off one shoulder. With a practiced, weary motion, she unbuttoned the front of her blouse and eased the fabric aside. Her breast, swollen and heavy with milk, spilled into the open air. The nipple was dark and taut, leaking a few pearly droplets before the baby latched on. Reena let out a long, shuddering breath, her head leaning back against the wall. The rhythmic pull of the child was the only sound in the room, a steady, primal heartbeat of survival.