She could have told him.
She should have.
But how do you speak a death sentence to someone who still holds you like you are his whole life?
That night, she watched him sleep—his lips parted slightly, his hand curled to his chest like a child's. He always looked younger in sleep. Softer. As if the world had never touched him.
The herbal paste she had made earlier was drying on his skin. She replaced it in silence, fingers trembling not from fatigue, but from the ache that grows in choices.
He stirred.
"Still not sleeping?"
"I will."
A lie.
"Come lie down. You think too loud."
She forced a smile, slipped beside him, and turned away, staring into the dark.
Hours slipped past.
And then dawn.
When light cracked faintly through the slits in the wood, she rose. Slowly. Not because she feared waking him, but because some part of her waited—
for him to stir,
to ask,
to stop her.
He didn't.
She looked back once.
His hand had fallen into the empty space where she'd been, fingers stretching faintly, as if reaching for a warmth already gone.
Asha's Memory — Three Years Ago
A younger Asha, her fingers stained yellow from turmeric, had once said,
"If anything happens to you, I'll go mad."
He had leaned close, brushing hair from her face.
"Then I'll make sure nothing ever does. You'll stay sane—and annoyed at me—for a long, long time."
"You promise?"
He nodded. Then kissed her palm, sealing it like a vow.
That morning, she dressed in her dullest clothes.
She tied her braid tighter than usual.
The path to the clearing was lined with silence. Dozens gathered—men and women alike, faces were locked in one expression: fear made formal.
No one noticed her trembling hands.
When the overseer called for names, she stepped forward.
"Asha, of Row Six."
He glanced up, surprised.
"Wasn't your partner—?"
"He's sick. I'm taking his place."
The man opened his mouth. Closed it.
Then nodded.
She signed the parchment. The ink bled outward from her shaking grip. It was done. No turning back now.