It was the night of Amavas—no moon, no light, only the weight of silence pressing down on the village. My sister came to me bleeding, her belly torn, cast out by the very people who once called her daughter. She died in my arms, whispering one word: Nanda.

I couldn’t let her child die with her. Not like this. So I did the unthinkable. I used the tantra he taught me—the secret mantras, the blood rituals—and pulled the breath into that tiny body. It cried once. Then silence.

When my husband returned, he looked at the child and said, 'This is not a baby. It’s a vessel. Born on Amavas Ki Raat, it will bring ruin.'

But I held it tighter. It has my sister’s lips. My sister’s fingers.

Now the village whispers. The goats are dead. The well tastes of ash. And my husband says the child must burn.

I won’t let them take it.

But I can’t fight him alone.

What do I do?