The mehendi had darkened to the color of aged mahogany, its patterns winding up Priya's arms like ancient scriptures written in henna and hope. She sat at the window of her childhood bedroom, watching the sun set over the Arabian Sea, and tried to memorize every detail of this last evening as Priya Singh. The way the light caught the dust motes dancing in the air. The way the distant waves hushed against the shore. The way her mother's footsteps sounded in the hallway, soft and tentative, as if she were approaching a shrine.
Tomorrow, she would be married.
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