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She laughed as she dabbed a thick layer of face mask on her mother's cheeks, both of them giggling like best friends. The scent of rosewater filled the room, and her mother playfully wrinkled her nose.
“Be gentle, I’m not your lab experiment!” her mother teased.
They both burst out laughing.
Later, the kitchen was alive with aromas. She stirred the curry while her mother chopped vegetables beside her, occasionally sneaking a piece into her mouth and pretending she hadn’t. Her big brother walked in, stealing a samosa from the tray and getting chased out by their younger sister.
The whole house was echoing with life — warmth, laughter, love.
After dinner, they all sat together watching an old movie, everyone talking over the dialogues and fighting for the last piece of dessert. She rested her head on her mother's shoulder, feeling perfectly at peace.
And then — silence.
She blinked.
The lights were different. The air, colder. Her room, empty.
She was alone.
She woke up with tears in her eyes, her pillow damp. Her heart ached with a pain that was too real to be just a dream.
She whispered, “It felt so real, Ma...”
And for a moment, she could still smell the rosewater.
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