The afternoon sun, a relentless eye, baked the village mud. Dust motes danced in the sparse light filtering through the kitchen window, illuminating Sara’s solitary world. The rhythmic thud of her palm against her thigh, a dull, insistent beat, was the only sound in the quiet house. Her husband, Rohan, had left for the city months ago, chasing the elusive promise of more money, leaving her in this quiet, dusty existence. The ache of his absence, a hollow throb low in her belly, had grown into a constant companion.