Hyderabad – June 12, 2025
The heat hit her like a wall the moment she stepped off the jet bridge. Even in the early morning, Hyderabad simmered under a thick canopy of humidity and grief. Anushree Rao adjusted her sunglasses, her jaw tight, her steps measured. She had crossed oceans, time zones, and the distance of a fractured lifetime to be here. Now, the city she once called home barely felt familiar.
Outside the terminal, the scene was chaos.
Media vans cluttered the arrival gates, their satellite dishes pointed skyward like desperate antennae searching for truth. Dozens of journalists surged forward as soon as they recognized her—Anushree, sister of the vanished minister, U.S. intelligence analyst, a ghost from Rathnadevi's past.
Microphones thrust into her face. Cameras clicked in rapid succession.
"Ms. Rao! Is it true—you're Rathnadevi's sister?Why hasn't the body been found yet? Do you believe she might still be alive?Did she fake her death to escape something?"
The questions came like machine-gun fire—sharp, relentless, unfeeling. She stopped just short of the security barricade, turned to face them.
Her face gave nothing away. No tears. No anger. Just a cold clarity honed by years in war rooms and crisis zones.
"Over five hundred people died," she said quietly, her voice firm enough to slice through the noise. "Not just her. Don't forget them."
There was a momentary hush.
And then—just as she turned to walk toward the waiting convoy—a voice rang out from somewhere deeper in the crowd. Not a journalist this time. A woman's voice, thin but urgent, heavy with belief.
"Do you believe in God? Do you think He saved her?"
Anushree stopped mid-step. The words struck her with unexpected weight.
She stood there for a second, her heart thudding. Then, slowly, she turned her head, not to the crowd, but slightly upward—as if searching the sky for answers.
"I… don't have an answer for that question."
Her voice was softer now, a confession more than a response.
And then she walked away. The crowd didn't follow this time. Cameras lowered. Microphones dropped.
Behind her, the city continued to grieve.
Inside her, something had cracked—but not yet broken.