Anyway. What felt like an eternity—and maybe it was, time loses meaning in deserts—about forty minutes later, Divya finally saw… wait. Hold on. What is that?
She squinted. Blinked. Rubbed her eyes and squinted harder. Something was moving. Something small. Ants?
"One, two, three… it's three ants?" she whispered, tilting her head like a confused bird.
Nope. Not ants.
They were… pickles?
Yes. Pickles. Three living, walking, upright pickles waddling toward her like soldiers in a cucumber rebellion.
Divya stared. The sun must've officially fried her brain.
But then, as they came closer, the hallucination melted, and she saw—ah. Three humans. Distant, yes. Dusty? Also yes. But definitely not pickles. (Still disappointing.)
A warm smile broke across Divya's sunburned face. Finally. Civilization. Or at least, moving objects that might share water.
And before anyone questions her strength—yes, of course she's strong. She can probably toss a mountain if she's annoyed enough. But this sun. This blazing, arrogant, overachieving sun above her head? It was out for blood. Honestly, she was surprised her brain wasn't scrambled like an egg. It sure felt like it.
And her shoes?
No. Her slippers.
She looked down. Once-new slippers. Now… ancient artifacts. Worn-out, discolored, the straps practically whispering, "We give up."
"Come closer. I'll show you my slippers," she muttered to an imaginary documentary crew. "Ten years of wear in ten minutes. Bravo."
Finally, the trio reached her. One old man in front, looking exactly like someone who'd say wise things and then forget them mid-sentence. He held a single wooden stick like it was a royal scepter. Beside him stood two younger men, probably in their thirties, probably regretting their life choices.
From the way the old man squinted at the sky like he was trying to decode a cloud, it was obvious: this was either the village chief or someone who just really loved standing dramatically.
Divya straightened, forced a polite smile, and greeted, "Hello, sir."
Seeing her, the old man squinted deeply—like he was trying to decide whether she was a cactus, a mirage, or just a really lifelike hallucination. His face contorted, frowning as though she had just personally stolen his dentures and tap-danced on his lawn.
Then he opened his mouth.
What came out wasn't speech—it was more like a breeze gently trying to whistle a tune, if that breeze had arthritis and a speech impediment.
Divya blinked.
"…Wha—what was that?"
"Whaaa eeyyy oooiinn heerrree... chaaaiiillld... ehhh?" came the reply—wispy, broken, and suspiciously like someone trying to summon ghosts through a cracked recorder.
She leaned in. Still nothing. It was like trying to decode Morse code from a haunted ceiling fan.
"…Ehhh?"
Divya stared at the old man, dumbfounded, confusion painting her face like a toddler caught in a rainstorm. It was a reflex. A completely normal one. After all, she couldn't understand a word of what he'd just said. The old man repeated his words, this time slower, like it would magically help.
It didn't.
Scratching her head, she forced a polite smile and stammered, "Uh… excuse me, sir, I—uh—I can't understand you. Can you maybe speak in Chinese, or English? Or… even interpretive dance would work, honestly."
The old man froze. His face became a statue of pure disbelief, like someone had just told him the moon was made of tofu. Then, with a sigh so dramatic it deserved its own opera, he rolled his eyes and gestured to the man standing beside him.
Finally, the man stepped forward, cleared his throat, and said, "Um, hello. May I ask who you are, and what are you doing here?"
Ah. So that's what language it was.
Divya brightened. "Oh! Hi! I'm Divya. I heard this village is really beautiful and peaceful, and I thought I'd move in. I'd like to register here as a villager?"
The men looked at each other. Then back at her. Then, somewhat hesitantly, one of them asked, "Okay… and where is your partner?"
Divya's smile froze. Oh crap. Right. This was that kind of world. One of those worlds. The kind where you couldn't even rent a closet without a spouse by your side.
She turned around, half-dramatically, half-stalling, before her face crumpled like soggy parchment. Tears welled up in her eyes as if on command. Theatric. Convincing. Almost award-worthy.
"I… I…" she hiccuped, suddenly transformed into the tragic heroine of a third-rate soap opera. "My husband… hic… my dearest, darling… hic hic…"
The men stared, eyes wide in shock. Just moments ago, she was calm and composed. Now she looked like she'd walked straight out of a mourning hall in slow motion.
"I was married two years ago… it was a beautiful ceremony. Very heartfelt. But then—" she paused for dramatic effect, "—he went to… to…"
She blinked. Oh no. Where did he go? Cultivation? What if she mentioned the wrong sect and they really did exist? What if they showed up to collect fees?
War? No. What if there was no war and they caught her lying?
Her mind raced like a hamster on caffeine.
"He—uh—he left," Divya announced with the kind of dramatic pause you'd expect from a soap opera actress who just caught her husband cheating on national TV.
And then? She collapsed to the ground like someone had just cut her Wi-Fi mid-season finale. Big, messy, Oscar-worthy sobs followed.
"You see, my lovely husband—my life partner—he left."
Now any sane person might've asked, "Left as in… for groceries? A soul-searching hike? Another woman?"
But no. These villagers? These genius-level gossipers?
They took one look at her waterworks and immediately decided the poor guy had dropped dead.
Not "left her." Not "ran off."
Dead.
D.E.A.D.
And just like that, poof—Divya became the village's youngest widow, complete with pity looks, extra rotis from aunties, and unsolicited matchmaking offers from creepy uncles.
All because nobody thought to ask a simple question:
"Did he leave-leave or die-leave?"
Anyway, judging from the villagers' expressions—those overly concerned eyes and dramatic gasps—there was a solid 99% chance they actually believed her.