The rain fell in heavy sheets over Lucknow’s old Christian cemetery, turning the dirt paths into slick mud. Meera stood under a black umbrella held by her aunt, staring at the polished mahogany coffin being lowered into the ground. Aryan—her husband of four years—gone at 29 in a drunk truck driver’s lane change. No children. No warning. Just a phone call at 2:17 a.m. and then this.

She was 26. Beautiful in that quiet, heartbreaking way—long black hair now plastered to her cheeks, almond eyes swollen from crying, fair skin pale against the black saree. The entire family was there: cousins, uncles, her late mother’s sister who had practically raised her after her parents died young.