The dust motes danced in the shafts of afternoon light that pierced through the heavy curtains of my father-in-law's bedroom. The air smelled of old sandalwood, stale tobacco, and something heavier—a musk that always seemed to cling to the walls of this room.

I gripped the cleaning rag, my knuckles white, as I wiped the mahogany dresser. Every sound in the house felt amplified now that my husband, Ramesh, was gone. The silence he left behind wasn't empty; it was predatory.