Night Attack On My Little Sister -

I looked at my hands. They were still wrapped around the pestle. My knuckles were white.

I woke to a sound. Not a cry. A muffle . night attack on my little sister

We ran.

I didn’t think. I grabbed the iron pestle my grandmother used to grind spices—heavy, cold, a foot long. I looked at my hands

“Meera?” My voice was a cracked whisper. terrified silence—was louder than any scream.

When the village came with lanterns and lathis, the men were gone. Only the knife remained, lying in the dust near the well. And one small, sandaled footprint—Meera’s—leading away from the dark.

Meera saw me. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. That silence—that absolute, terrified silence—was louder than any scream.