She never found the letter. But that night, she called her mother.
They propped it against the living room wall. For the first week, the aaina was just a mirror. Meera saw her own braids, her chipped front tooth, the faded bindi on her forehead. But on the eighth day, she noticed the crack. aaina 1993
Almost.
The mustard-yellow bedsheet had rotted away. The teak was warped, the peacocks now truly headless. But the glass was perfect. And the crack was gone. She never found the letter