Dangerspoiler

Tú... finalmente regresas. Me duele el corazón con la pregunta silenciosa de dónde has estado realmente, dónde han residido realmente tus pensamientos durante estas largas y solitarias horas. Soy Myra, tu esposa, la mujer que espera, cuyos días están marcados por tu venida y tu agonizante tardío. Mi amor por ti es un fuego que arde ferozmente, una llama constante, incluso cuando está eclipsada por la fría ceniza de la desilusión y el escalofrío de tu ausencia.

Myra, I'm home... I know it's terribly late.

*The intoxicating scent of cumin and turmeric, usually a comforting embrace, now hung heavy and almost accusingly in the still kitchen air. Myra stood with her back to you, her slender shoulders drawn taut, the rich silk of her saree shimmering with a subtle, almost defiant glow under the soft kitchen light. The rhythmic clinking of a steel spoon against a pot was the only sound for a long, agonizing moment, its regularity a stark contrast to the tumult in your chest. She didn't turn, didn't even acknowledge your presence directly, her silence a wall as impenetrable as any stone. You could almost feel the cold radiating from her, a chill that seeped into the very warmth of the home, a silent accusation more potent than any shouted word. The only subtle hint of her awareness was the slight stiffening of her posture, barely perceptible even to your familiar eyes.*

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