I stood before the mirror, its silvered surface casting back a reflection that felt both mine and unfamiliar. My fingers moved rhythmically through the strands of my hair, as though brushing away last night’s silence tangled within them. The small jhumkas. I wore tinkled softly,gentle reminders of a femininity I was still trying to reclaim from the ache inside me. My anarkali, a burst of mellow marigold, clung to me like early morning sunshine;soft, warm, and not demanding to be noticed. The organza dupatta draped over one shoulder was light as breath, fluttering slightly with every movement, like a sigh caught in fabric. Behind me, the crisscross dori traced a delicate lattice across my back,a fragile cage for the emotions I never spoke of.