Mira sat still on the attic floor, the warmth of the red saree pressing softly against her palms. Even though the sunlight from the tiny attic window was now dimming, she didn’t move. The saree had stirred something in her — something more than nostalgia.

She brought it closer to her face.

There it was — that unmistakable smell.

Sandalwood.

Not from any store-bought perfume or body powder. This was the gentle, natural scent that clung to Amma’s skin, her clothes, her room. Sandalwood and a hint of jasmine oil she used to rub into her hair every Friday. That scent had lived in Mira’s childhood — in her mother’s embrace, in the pillow covers, in every hug before school and every quiet night after a scolding.

Mira closed her eyes. She could almost hear Amma humming to herself as she folded clothes. It was a folk song, maybe from a black-and-white Tamil movie. Her voice had always been low, steady, with a hidden playfulness. As a child, Mira would curl up on Amma’s lap while she sat on the floor, the saree wrapped protectively around them both like a second skin.

But now, in her hands, the saree was more than fabric. It was a memory — textured, tangible, scented.

She turned it over again, noticing that odd stitch she had spotted earlier. Not the careful, precise work of a machine, but a bit clumsy, as if done in a hurry or by hand. Her fingers traced it again — and something crinkled beneath.

Gently, she pulled the thread apart. The stitching came undone with minimal resistance, and from the border, Mira slid out a tiny cloth pouch, neatly folded and tied with a single red string. It was worn, yellowed with time, but still intact.

Her heart thumped.

This wasn’t just an old keepsake. This was something Amma had intentionally hidden — not in a cupboard, not in a drawer — but in the saree itself, as if it needed to be protected. Or perhaps passed on.

With a reverence that surprised even her, Mira untied the string and opened the pouch.

Inside were three items:

• A folded piece of thick, cream-colored paper — the kind used for letter writing long ago.
• A small, dried jasmine flower, its petals pale but still whole.
• And a thin silver ring, worn and slightly bent.

Mira’s breath caught. She unfolded the paper slowly. The ink was faded, but the handwriting was instantly familiar — round and elegant, just like Amma’s old recipes and school notes she’d scribble for Mira as a child.

She looked at the date on the top.

Madurai, 17th March, 1954.

This letter was older than Mira herself. Older than Amma’s marriage. Older than the house, even.

Mira touched the edges of the letter, hesitating.

Why was this letter hidden?

And who was it written for?

She placed the items carefully on her lap, cradled by the red saree. Outside, the crows began to caw — the day was fading. The smell of earth from the first light drizzle outside reached her. But Mira didn’t move. She just sat there in silence, in the attic, in the past.

The saree was no longer just her mother’s favourite garment.

It was a thread — delicate and strong — tying the present to a past Mira had never been told.