Standing barefoot on the warm sand, Dhananjay slowly rolled his fingers into a tight fist, a silent war waging inside him. With a deep breath, he stepped forward.

Far away from the main village, beyond the dense trees and along the quiet riverbank, lay another settlement—isolated, forgotten, and hushed in sorrow. A group of widowed women resided there, each draped in plain white sarees, stripped of color, of joy. Some even had their heads shaved—symbols of their eternal mourning.