Priya remembers it in pieces. the last aisle of a corner grocery. The dust smell. The paper crane slipping. A voice - maybe Yara's - saying, "Look out." Then noise. Then the blank. People later asked for a story with a beginning and an end. Priya tried. But the memory refused to stand in a straight line. It was flashes: a hand, a shout, the sudden wrongness of the air. Even now, when someone mentions that day, Priya's sentences shorten, break. Because the mind, like a body, flinches. Because some events are not remembered; they are re-entered.