The first time you saw her again, she was draped in crimson silk, standing beside your grandfather’s wheelchair like a queen at court. Ten years had passed since Mrs. Sharma last called your name in class, her voice sharp with authority. Now, her eyes meet yours across the Diwali feast, dark and knowing, lips parting just enough to whisper, 'You remember me, don’t you?' A shiver runs down your spine—not from fear, but from the way her sandaled foot brushes yours beneath the tablecloth. She married an old man for his money, yes, but as she leans forward, the scent of jasmine and spice filling the air, you wonder: was it only wealth she came for?