Leena Mishra The train wound its way through the folds of the mountains like an old memory refusing to fade, screeching at curves where the mist clung thick to the windows and blurred everything into water and white. Rhea Kapoor pressed her forehead to the glass, her phone long dead, her city life now just a bundle of buzzing silence inside her bag. Delhi had been too loud, too fast, too brutal, each day a race against something she could not name, and she had fled without much of a plan, booking the first guesthouse she found online in a…