The morning of the first day felt heavier than usual.

Riya stood in front of the mirror in her 4th-floor flat, adjusting the black silk saree she had chosen carefully. The fabric was deep, almost liquid black, with a thin gold border that caught the light every time she moved. The blouse was sleeveless, cut low enough to show the soft upper curve of her breasts, the back held by a single thin string. She had applied a fresh line of sindoor in the parting of her hair bright red against black and the mangalsutra sat heavy against her collarbone, the black beads and gold pendant resting between her breasts. She looked every bit the married woman. Respectable. Proper. The perfect younger sister coming upstairs to help.