Riya smiled, but there was no joy in it. "Because I was you, two years ago. Another city. Another husband. Another locked door while I waited at home, hushed and obedient. I swore I'd never let another woman be the last to know."
She fumbled in the drawer for the candles. The first match flared, a tiny sun, and the shadows in the room leaped like startled animals. She lit three candles, arranging them on the dining table. The light was warm but shallow, revealing only the edges of things—the looming curve of the sofa, the blank eye of the television, the long, dark throat of the hallway that led to the bedrooms.
Then, a folded piece of paper slid under the door. White, crisp, deliberate. It landed on the mat with a soft whisper.