The tenth night felt like the end of everything Priya had ever been. There was no hiding now. No pretending. The village knew. Whispers had turned to shouts. Her father had carried her home that morning—naked under his shawl, cum and piss still drying on her skin. He hadn’t spoken a word. Just laid her on the charpoy, covered her with a thin blanket, and left the house. Priya lay there all day—body aching, mind numb—listening to the village outside. Doors slamming. Voices rising. Her name spat like poison.

“Randi.”