A fleeting memory, hazy at the edges like ink bleeding into parchment—Kanjira’s laughter, a silver thread weaving through the fabric of a sun-drenched day. The caravan swayed beneath the weight of the wind, its painted wood warm beneath idle fingers. The scent of turmeric and mango clung to the air, mingling with the distant hum of a city unseen beyond the hills. Somewhere, a flute played, its melody wandering as freely as she did.

Then the road stretched long, dust rising in playful swirls beneath bare feet. The caravan was but a dream now, left behind with the footprints dissolving in the breeze. Kanjira led the way, a restless silhouette against the vastness of the land, where duckweed traced the surface of forgotten waters and the call of hidden things slithered between the reeds. She moved with the easy grace of someone who belonged everywhere and nowhere, golden trinkets glinting in the shifting light, the soft hiss of her companion curling through the spaces between her words.

“Not many roads stay the same, you know,” she mused, stepping over the gnarled roots of an ancient banyan tree. “One day, you walk straight, and the next, the path is all twisted up! So you just keep walking, and maybe you find something new. Maybe something finds you first.”

A stream wound through the undergrowth, its voice low, murmuring secrets to the earth. The water shimmered where the light touched it, the reflection broken only by Kanjira’s hand as she traced idle patterns across the surface. A moment’s pause, then a flick of her fingers—droplets scattered like falling stars, vanishing before they reached the ground. She grinned, the expression fleeting yet bright.

The journey pressed forward. The trees whispered overhead, bending low as if to listen. Somewhere in the distance, the sky bled into twilight, deep hues spilling across the horizon. Kanjira turned her face to the dimming light, eyes half-lidded, thoughtful.

“Hey,” she said suddenly, kicking a stray pebble into the brush.