Leena Roy ONE The air was thick with the scent of wet stone and jasmine as Clara Reynolds stepped off the rickety bus that had rumbled its way from Jaipur through dust, thunder, and time. Udaipur rose before her like a faded painting—its cream-colored palaces floating on mirrored lakes, its crooked alleys climbing hillsides like vines searching for sunlight. She pulled her rucksack tighter over her shoulders and adjusted the scarf around her neck, a habit she’d picked up to blend in, or perhaps to hide in. The city seemed drenched in something beyond rain—melancholy, perhaps, or memory. Raindrops clung…