Page 87 of Scars and Crowns

The fair is exactly the kind I remember from childhood—loud, crowded, and gloriously chaotic.

Somewhere nearby, a generator drones steadily beneath the music blaring from old speakers. Strings of coloured lights sway overhead in the evening breeze. A man at a cotton candy stall is enthusiastically advertising three different colours as though he's offering something revolutionary, while children squeal from the Ferris wheel every time it reaches the top. The whole place smells like roasted corn, frying oil, sugar and dust, all tangled together into something oddly familiar.

Anamika walks beside me through the crowd, but she isn't really here. Not completely.

Within minutes, I notice the pattern. Her gaze keeps drifting back in the direction of the estate as though she can somehow see through fields and trees if she tries hard enough. Every few steps, her fingers reach automatically for her phone, checking the screen even though it hasn't vibrated once since we left.

I understand it.

I'd be lying if I said my own thoughts weren't wandering back to Sara every now and then. A small stomach ache shouldn't unsettle me this much, and yet I keep replaying lunch in my head anyway. The way she pushed her plate away. The tiny crease between her brows. The way Anamika's face changed the instant she realised something was wrong.

Still . . . we're here. And half an hour is half an hour. Besides, there's something about Anamika I don't think even she remembers anymore.

She has always loved fairs.

Not politely. Not because someone else wanted to come. She genuinely loved them—the noise, the food, the games, all of it. I can still picture a younger version of her tugging impatiently at my sleeve, determined to visit every single stall before we went home, somehow spending both our pocket money long before we'd even reached the halfway point.

"You used to love this," I say, nodding toward the bhel puri stall as the sharp smell of tamarind and green chillies reaches us. "You'd eat food so spicy your eyes would water, and then insist nothing was wrong."

"I was fine," she says automatically. The denial comes far too quickly. A tiny smile slips onto her face anyway.

"You cried once." I grin. "You had tears streaming down your face and still ordered another plate."

She lets out a quiet laugh. "That happened one time."

"But it happened." She looks back at the stall. Really looks this time. Something in her shoulders eases, just enough for me to notice. Before she can change her mind, I guide us toward it and order two plates.

I don't ask what she wants. I already know. When I hand one over, she accepts it absentmindedly, glances at her phone one last time, then seems to make a decision. She slips it into her bag and finally gives the bhel her full attention.

She takes one bite. Her eyes close briefly. It's only for a heartbeat, but I catch it. That tiny, unguarded expression of pure enjoyment. No worry. No carefulness. Just simple pleasure.

The sight loosens something inside me. For one whole moment she's standing here beside me instead of mentally sitting next to Sara's bed.

"Still too spicy," I say.

She immediately blinks several times. Her eyes are already watering. "It isn't." She says it with complete conviction before taking another bite anyway.

I laugh. The sound surprises even me. It comes easily, without thought. She looks over at me, studying my face with an expression I can't quite place before shaking her head with quiet amusement.

I don't give her much time to disappear back into her thoughts. Instead, I steer us toward one of the game stalls.

Ring toss.

Every fair has one. Every fair pretends it's possible to win. She throws the first ring. It lands nowhere near the bottle. The second isn't much better.

By the fourth attempt she's laughing at herself. I take my turn. The fifth ring would have landed perfectly if I'd wanted it to. Instead, I let it slip just enough to bounce harmlessly away.

She catches me. "I saw that."

"What?"

"You missed on purpose."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

She swats my arm. "You cheated."

"I lost."