The monsoon had arrived in Kerala like an angry lover. For three days straight, rain hammered the earth without pause. Thick grey clouds blocked the sun, turning midday into twilight. Every leaf, every branch, every inch of ground glistened and dripped. The air smelled heavy — wet soil, rotting leaves, and the faint sweet rot of overripe jackfruit somewhere deep in the jungle.

Asha walked alone on a narrow footpath that twisted away from her village. She was twenty-four, unmarried, and already whispered about by the older women for the way her hips swayed when she carried water pots or bent to pick chilies. Her skin was the warm brown of fresh coconut husk, smooth and glowing even under the constant rain. Today she wore a thin white cotton blouse, the kind village girls wore for everyday work. She had not bothered with a bra. Why would she? The rain would soak it through in minutes anyway, and no one would see her this far out.