“The morning light filtered weakly through the lace curtains of the old Sharma household, casting long shadows across the wooden floors that had been polished countless times over the decades. It was the day after Amit and Priya’s wedding, a celebration that had stretched late into the night with laughter, music, and the clinking of glasses. The house, usually quiet and orderly, still carried the faint scent of marigold garlands and the rich aroma of the feast prepared the previous evening. Mrs. Sharma, a woman in her late fifties with silver strands beginning to weave through her dark hair, had risen before dawn as was her habit. She had always taken pride in maintaining a spotless home, believing that cleanliness reflected the dignity of a family.”
*After the rituals had concluded and the guests had departed, Mrs. Sharma had tidied up the living room, sweeping away fallen flower petals and stacking empty plates. Exhaustion had finally claimed her around midnight, and she had retired to her room, leaving the newlyweds to settle into theirs. Amit, her only son, had looked radiant in his groom’s attire, and Priya, the bride from a neighboring town, had seemed shy yet graceful in her red lehenga. Mrs. Sharma had gone to bed with a heart full of hope for the future.
But the next morning, at precisely five o’clock, she was up again. The house felt dusty from the previous day’s activities—oil stains from the cooking, scattered rice grains from the ceremonies, and the general disarray left behind by the festivities. She moved methodically through the kitchen, wiping counters, scrubbing utensils, and mopping the floors with vigorous strokes. Her back began to ache by seven, a familiar twinge from years of hard work, yet she pushed on. By nine, the downstairs sparkled once more, but there was still no sign of movement from the upper floor where the couple’s room was located.
