The monsoon rain had finally subsided by early August, leaving behind a heavy, humid stillness that hung over Shanti Sadan Orphanage like wet linen. In place of the downpours came a suffocating heat, thick with the scent of stagnant water from the muddy courtyard and the sharp, sour tang of bleaching powder used to scrub the mildewed dormitory corridors.

For eight-year-old Kavya, every passing hour felt like a ticking clock counting down to an inescapable execution.