The following week passed in a blur. Mrityunjay remained buried in work, his days swallowed by endless meetings and late hours at the office. Most nights, he didn’t even return home in time for dinner his meals were usually taken at his desk, leaving Ira to eat alone at the dining table. When he finally did come home, it was well past midnight.

Ira understood. She had long sensed that whatever had happened in Goa lingered in his mind, and this work-obsessed routine was simply the aftereffect of it. Still, she never complained. She didn’t question him when he came home late, nor did she sulk about his absence. And yet, deep inside, she felt the void of his presence every single day.