Where do I start?

The eighteen-year-old version of me, impulsive and raw, answers without hesitation: you start with the things she lost.

After reading those text messages, it's like the younger me has risen from the ashes—reckless, headstrong, and fiercely determined.

She lost dignity. Confidence. Dreams. Aspiration. A future she had every right to.
And worst of all—she seems to have lost every ounce of hope.

I give up on sleep. It feels pointless now.

I drag myself out of bed, and step into the shower. The hot water does little to shake the fog in my head, but at least it's a start. By the time I'm dressed, I've surrendered to the rhythm of the early morning. A cup of coffee keeps me company as I balance the laptop on my thighs, sifting through the flood of emails, replying, drafting—another day of maintaining order in chaos.

A new Roameo hotel is set to open in Hyderabad. The inauguration promises a spectacle—A-listers, actors, musicians, influencers, all glitter and polish. I comb through the guest list and RSVPs, double-checking details, ensuring everything is as seamless as the luxury brand I've sold my soul to uphold.

When I finally glance at the clock, sunlight is slipping through the wispy curtains, painting faint streaks on the walls. I close my laptop, satisfied that I've cleared most of the immediate work, and turn my attention to what really matters.

The suitcase waits where I left it the first day we arrived. I hadn't fully unpacked, figuring I'd leave the farmhouse once the rituals were done. But then I saw Maithili, and everything shifted.

I unpack slowly, sliding clothes into the closet like it's a promise I don't want to admit I'm making. Mum left yesterday. She didn't ask why I stayed. She didn't care, and I didn't expect her to. For once, it's not something I'm bitter about.

Before I leave, I pull up Google Maps and search for the nearest thrift stores. That's how the hunt begins.

It doesn't take long to find one close to Maithili's house—barely a mile away. It feels too convenient, like fate tying a neat little bow on this moment. I check it out first.

I'm not looking for a label. I know I won't find her name stitched into anything, not directly. So I look for what's familiar: the style, the patterns. Daisies. It's petals patched over worn fabric, stitched around tears, brooches pinned on lapels like punctuation, or floral designs stretched across the backs of tees. Chunky, intricate, subtle, loud—daisies. That's what I'm here for.

And I find it.

Near the entrance, there's a circular rack of clothes, the kind meant to catch your eye the moment you walk in. A makeshift sign rests on top, proudly handwritten in black marker: Petalcraft.

She's hiding. She's afraid to use her name. Mai.

And I think of the first thing she lost—her dignity.

I exhale, the air leaving my chest sharp and heavy, and make my way to the store manager. As I speak, I glance back at the rack. A group of girls, a guy, and two women are sifting through her work, their fingers brushing the daisies she's sown into existence.

It doesn't take much to make the manager understand what I want. A few words, a card handed over, and suddenly the entire Petalcraft section is being taken down. Confusion ripples through the customers as they watch their treasures disappear. I don't care.

By the time I leave, the back seat of my car is filled with boxes of her clothes, and the rack in the store stands empty.

I dial Mr. Khatri to my office line. He had been my father's PA until my father passed everything to me and retired peacefully a year ago. Mr. Khatri isn't my PA. He's forty-nine, stocky, and rigid—both in his appearance and demeanor. I've upgraded his title to Executive Assistant, though nothing about him has changed. He managed the CMD office during the sixteen days I was gone.

'Mr. Jain,' he answers in two rings, his voice clipped, precise, basal.

'Khatri Ji, patch me through to Naveen,' I say.

'Naveen Saxena, tech head, or Naveen Mehra, operations manager?'

'Saxena,' I reply, impatience edging my words.

I wait, gripping the steering wheel tightly, feeling the weight of the silence in my car. A beat passes, then Naveen's lazy, almost crooning voice spills through the speakers.

'Yeah? What's the assignment, boss dude?' he drawls, the casual tone one he knows I allow. We'd shared a hostel once, and he's always been like this—languid on the surface, brilliant where it matters.

'Check your email,' I say, my voice sharp, clipped.

'Hang on, man. How are you? Heard about your father. You holding up okay?'

I don't answer. I let the silence take the space, let it fill his question with things I don't want to say.

He exhales. 'So you want me to make a fashion website?' I can almost see him now—straightening up in his chair, the shift in tone from lazy to professional.

'Yes,' I say simply.

'A brand showcase. Not an e-commerce?'

'We're partnering with influencers and celebrities to sell the products. The target isn't mass consumers. It's for people who wear clothes to tell a story. Who want their presence to say something. We need to brand it as luxury.'

He scoffs lightly. 'A repurposed, upcycled clothing line as luxury? You sure about that?'

'It can be luxury if we sell the story right,' I say, leaning forward as though he can hear me closing the distance. 'Luxury isn't price tags or shiny labels—it's exclusivity, craftsmanship, and narrative. Repurposing? It's commercial propaganda. It's rebellion wrapped in elegance. People don't just pay for the product, Naveen. They pay for the story.'

He's quiet for a moment. I can hear the gears turning in his head, the war of hesitation against curiosity, practicality against possibility.

'And you think this story will resonate with the right crowd?' he finally asks.

'I don't think,' I answer. 'I know.'

There's another pause before he breathes out a resigned, amused sigh. 'Fine. I'll make the website. I'll need some backup from the marketing team—videos, photos, the process behind the making. The works.'

'I'll arrange that,' I say, already making a mental list of people who might come close to replicating her skill. Local seamstresses. Fashion designers.

But even as the thought forms, it snags. I'd need her for this—her touch, her eye, her craft.

I press my lips together, a familiar weight settling in my chest. I need to think this through.

'But what's in it for me? It's a side project, not in my KRA.' Naveen's voice jolts me out of the thought process.

I laugh, a short, dry sound. 'Since when did you start worrying about your KRA?'

'I didn't get incremental pay this year because HR thought I underperformed my targets,' he says, indignant. 'Lakhs lost, man. I also have a family. I also need to take my girlfriend to Hawaii sometimes!'

'You'll get an increment worth a hundred percent of your KRA this year.'

A beat. Then, 'Consider it done, boss dude.'

'It needs to launch on inauguration day.'

'I'll have it ready before,' he promises.

'Fine.'

'Is that my answer?' he asks. 'To how you're holding up?'

'Yes,' I say finally. 'That too. I'm fine. Thanks.'