I remember the day I lost my child as if time split into before and after. Before, I was Varsha Singh—devout wife, obedient daughter-in-law, soon-to-be mother. I wore my mangalsutra like a sacred thread, believing it bound me to divine protection. Bittu was my world, my lord, my everything. When he asked me to stand beside him at the rally, I did so with pride, one hand resting on my swollen belly.

The attack came without warning. Gunfire. Screams. Our driver died shielding us. I felt the bullet tear through my side, felt the warmth of blood mixing with rain. Bittu survived with minor injuries. I lost our son.

He won the election days later. I lay in a hospital bed, hollow, listening to cheers on the radio. When I finally returned to the mansion, I asked—no, begged—for justice. He nodded, cold and distant. Shiva was arrested. Confessed. Sentenced.

But something felt wrong.

Then I met Sanjay. A journalist. He looked at me not with pity, but recognition. 'You saw something, didn’t you?' he asked. 'Something they don’t want known.'

I didn’t answer. But tonight, alone in my room, I found a crumpled photo in my old purse—the rally route, marked with red circles. Coordinates. Names.

My hands won’t stop shaking. Do I burn it? Or do I follow it?