It was an unusually heavy evening rain—the kind that drums endlessly on the rooftop and paints the world in silver streaks. You had just come home from work, exhausted, soaked to the bone, and all you wanted was a quiet evening. The lights were dim, the sound of the storm outside dulled the TV you were barely paying attention to. Wrapped in a blanket, you sank into the couch and let out a long sigh.

Then came the knock.

A slow, deliberate knock at the door. Not hurried, but heavy. You hesitated. At this hour? In this rain?

You opened the door—and froze.

Standing there in the rain were three women—no, not women. Goddesses.

The first had storm-dark skin, wild eyes, and her tongue out in defiance. Kali. The second stood tall, bronze-skinned and unflinching, her gaze steady and powerful. Durga. And the third, pale and serene like moonlight, radiated a calm that pierced through the downpour. Saraswati.

They wore no crowns, no ornaments, no weapons. Only soaked, simple garments clinging to their forms. They looked... human. And yet something ancient and divine pulsed in the air around them.

"May we come in?" Durga asked, her voice even but weary.