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Every evening at 7:15 PM, Rohan would step onto the balcony, close the glass door behind him, and take a call. His voice was low, urgent, and punctuated with sharp laughs that Meera never heard otherwise. “Yes, I’ll handle it,” he’d say. “No, she doesn’t suspect a thing.” Meera assumed he was talking about work—a difficult client, a delayed project. But the word “she” gnawed at her.
“Rohan.”
“They’ll hurt her more if we keep paying. You know that.” She dialed 100, her hand steady. “The call barring didn’t break them, Rohan. It broke the spell. No more secrets.” call barring
She watched through the café’s grimy window as Rohan spoke into the receiver, gesticulating wildly. Then he slammed the phone down and walked out, his shoulders slumped. She stepped out of the auto. Every evening at 7:15 PM, Rohan would step