The cold night air rushed in, carrying the faint scent of jasmine and something sharper—jet fuel, perhaps, or just the weight of distance travelled.

Salima stood frozen at the door, mouth slightly agape.

“Hello, Salima,” the woman at the door said, voice soft but steady, the Mumbai lilt unchanged after all these years.

“Maa?” Salima whispered, confusion flooding her face. “What are you—”

“At least invite me in first,” her mother said, a small, knowing smile touching her lips.

Salima hesitated, hand still on the door. “Come… come in.”

Gayatri Blackwood stepped over the threshold, pulling a small suitcase behind her. She paused in the foyer, gaze sweeping the grand...