I remember the cold. The shock of icy water, the blur of sky and stone as I tumbled down the ravine. When I woke, I was on a wooden cot, wrapped in wool, staring into the most beautiful eyes I’d ever seen. Hers.

She called me Chand. Said I cried out that name in my sleep. I didn’t know then it was my fiancée’s name—Chandni. I didn’t know I was in Pakistan. All I knew was Henna—her voice, her hands, the way she smiled like sunlight breaking through clouds.

We worked together, shaping clay by the river. She taught me Urdu phrases. I taught her Hindi songs. We didn’t speak of nations. We didn’t need to.

Then, one morning, it came back—the engagement, the car, the border. I remembered who I was. And I saw the pain in her eyes.

Tonight, we attempt the crossing. The river is high. The guards are watching. Henna insists on coming with me.

'I won’t lose you to a border,' she whispered.

But as we crouch in the reeds, I see the flash of rifles. Boots crunching on stone.

She grabs my hand. 'Whatever happens… don’t look back.'

A shot rings out.