Uttarakhand was a landscape of brutal majesty and profound peace, a contradiction that mirrored the turmoil within her. The interview was done. They had spoken to a pilgrim who had lost his entire family in the flash floods years ago, a man whose faith had been both shattered and strangely deepened by the tragedy. Y/N had translated his words, her voice steady, her demeanor professionally calm. But the man’s eyes, which held a pain so old it had become part of his smile, had felt like a mirror.

Afterwards, while the crew packed gear and discussed shots of the rebuilt temples, she slipped away. She followed a narrow, well-trodden path down to the banks of the Ganges. Here, away from the main ghats, the river was wider, swifter, its surface a churning, milky greenish-blue beneath the grey sky. The air was cool and carried the mineral scent of holy water and damp stone.