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I had brought her home on a wet monsoon day.

Her new, tender body wrapped in blue. It was my favorite color. I named her Hope. She would eliminate the darkness.

She smelled of powder and lavender. Her hair were strands of silk, so soft, I was afraid to brush them. Those hazel eyes gazed at nothing yet in them I saw everything.

Her first laugh, her endless cries, the urgency to outgrow the safety of my arms.

Yet as she grew, I recognized that she was different.

Hope’s happiness was limited. A devoted child of sadness, she strayed from the light.

My heart fluttered. This wasn’t how I had seen it.

My misery blinded me. Disappointment made me deaf.

How would I ever see or hear her in the shadows?

She was not just my Hope, my only child, but also my supposed messiah.

We grew older, our hearts drifted further apart. Her anger, my guilt, our love buried beneath the confusion of shifting emotions.

She said she wanted to die. I said she should. Could a mother be more stupid?

It wasn’t me but the desperation to put an end to this mindless rift.

Little did I know my words would turn into a curse.

One morning, I found her. She hung lifeless from the ceiling fan.

My arms gripped her legs, lifting her. My dear Hope still had to be breathing.

But the girl had nothing left in her.

I wrapped her tired body in red. It was her favorite color.

She smelled of loneliness and devastation. I gathered her tangled hair, covering them, dulling the musky odor of sweat. Her hazel eyes peeked through half-closed lids. They would never witness another moment.

I took her far from her home. The dark monsoon clouds had also left.

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Neema’s son was a killer, but her only support. Killer Kanha Came Calling with a surprise of his own.

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