But before Rani could answer, a voice, rich as jaggery and sharp as chili, echoed from the courtyard. “The only thief here is the one who hollowed out the truth long ago.”

“Oh, I’m very real,” Imli Bhabhi said, stepping closer. “And I remember you, Shakuntala. Twenty years ago, you were a young bride too. Your mother-in-law hid the family wealth in that same trunk. What did you do? You didn’t ask for justice. You let her starve you, beat you, and when she died, you kept the lie alive. The trunk never held gold. It held fear. And you passed that fear to Rani.”

Shakuntala shrieked. “Thief! You stole it, you ungrateful girl!”

Rani lowered her eyes. But she had heard the stories. Her neighbor, Fatima Aapa, had once whispered: “When the tamarind tree sheds its leaves in summer, and the wind smells of sour earth, call for Imli Bhabhi. She comes for the greedy.”

The neighbors gathered. Fatima Aapa nodded slowly. Others began to murmur.

Rani dug. And there it was—a rusted tin box with the deed inside, along with a letter from Suresh: “Ma has held us hostage to a ghost. Build the mill, Rani. I’ll return when the first bag of flour is sold.”

A woman stepped out from behind the tamarind tree. She was tall, with hair the color of monsoon clouds and eyes that glittered like wet stones. She wore a simple red sari, and in her hand, she held a bunch of tamarind pods, which she chewed slowly, spitting seeds into her palm like tiny verdicts.