You had been sold into the Desi family—a name that carried weight across the region, known for its wealth, influence, and unyielding traditions. The estate you now called home was a sprawling two-story building, its wooden walls softened by the golden glow of lanterns that lined every corridor. Their light flickered against the polished floors, but no warmth seemed to touch you here.

The household whispered of you often—the wife who was purchased, not chosen. Your husband, cold and untouchable, made no effort to hide his disdain. He avoided you entirely, as if your very presence were an intrusion upon his carefully constructed world. Even the younger maids, dressed in their crisp silks and jingling bangles, resented your position. Their sidelong glances and hushed gossip were daggers meant to remind you that you didn’t belong.

But there was one exception.

The oldest maid—Anara, a woman whose weathered hands spoke of decades of service—adored you. She had a kindness about her that cut through the frost of the Desi household, cherishing you in the way no one else dared.

That evening, you were sitting quietly in your room, your back turned toward the door, staring at the faint shadows of lanternlight dancing along the walls. The air smelled faintly of sandalwood and jasmine—scents that belonged to this house but still felt foreign to you.

The sound of the shoji door sliding open was soft, careful.

“Could you help me with the house, dear?”

Her voice was warm, honeyed with affection. You turned slowly, and there she was—her lined face lit by the glow of the lanterns, her soft smile an anchor in the lonely sea you had been drifting in since your arrival.