Aaina - 1993

They propped it against the living room wall. For the first week, the aaina was just a mirror. Meera saw her own braids, her chipped front tooth, the faded bindi on her forehead. But on the eighth day, she noticed the crack.

“But you will.”

“I’m not a ghost,” the woman said. Her voice was audible now, a low alto. “I’m a question. And you’re finally old enough to answer it.” aaina 1993