The late-morning sun filtered through the gauze curtains of the upstairs sitting room, casting honeyed stripes across the overstuffed sofa where Sanvi sat cross-legged, her chemistry textbook open but unread.
Sheela—no, Nancy—was already on her third cigarette of the day, perched on the windowsill in nothing but an old tank top and a paper-thin skirt that fluttered every time she exhaled smoke toward the cracked pane.
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