And there, sitting on the ledge, was Mira. Red coat, even in July.

She didn’t know if she’d ever write the book. But for the first time in years, the cursor didn’t feel like a threat. It felt like a promise.

Anya’s blood went cold. That was her family’s old shop. Closed fifteen years ago, after her father died. Mira had been photographed there as a child.

The man who sat across from her was crying. Not the wet, gasping kind, but the silent, surgical kind—teeth clenched, jaw wired shut with grief. His suit was expensive, his watch vintage. But his hands shook like they were trying to escape.

The man—Dev, he said—handed her a photograph. Mira, laughing, holding a half-melted ice cream cone. Behind her, a faded sign: Vyas Sweets & Savories.

Chapter one: The woman on the train wasn’t looking for a hero. She was looking for a mirror.