The scent of stale milk and baby powder clung to the curtains of the small living room. Nandini shifted the six-month-old weight of her daughter, Anya, against her shoulder. The baby let out a sharp, piercing wail that vibrated through Nandini's thin frame. She rocked back and forth, her movements mechanical. Every time the floorboards creaked, she flinched, her eyes darting toward the front door. The ghost of a heavy footstep still haunted her, even though the man who made those sounds had been dead for five months.

A heavy knock echoed through the house. Nandini froze. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.