His father hung up.

Three months later, Reyansh sends Zara a photograph: the Mandawa haveli , its courtyard swept clean, a single chair in the center. The caption reads: “First artist arrives next week. Still need a historian.”

Kabir was Zara’s ex-husband. He drove a white SUV, wore linen shirts, and had the particular cruelty of apologizing without ever saying sorry. He’d come to “talk,” he said. He’d heard she was in Jaisalmer. He wanted another chance.

Reyansh was sitting on the fort wall, feet dangling over a sixty-foot drop. “I bought a house.”

She looked at him. “You bought that haveli because of me.”

That night, Zara and Reyansh lay on the rooftop, watching heat lightning flicker over the desert.

They made a terrible pair anyway.

Silence.

“I can’t promise you anything,” she said. “I’m thirty-one. I’ve been divorced. I have a book to finish. I don’t know if I believe in love anymore, or if I just believe in companionship and good conversation.”