The Saffron Palm

In October of 2017, my cousin Maya passed away in a car accident just before her sixteenth birthday. She was like a sister to me, and her death left a void that never fully healed. A few months later, I started noticing small, inexplicable things around my aunt’s house—the scent of her perfume in empty rooms, the flicker of a lamp she used to love, a single strand of her hair on a pillow that had been washed. My aunt, Lena, was especially shaken. She and Maya had always been close, and Maya had a habit of leaving her handprint on the bathroom mirror after a shower, a little ritual she did to check if her makeup was even. One evening, Lena stepped out of the shower, and there it was: a perfect handprint on the misted mirror, but it was not her own. It was slightly smaller, with longer fingers, and it seemed to be pressed from the inside, as if someone had placed it on the reverse side. There was no residue, no oil, just a clear impression in the fog. When Lena placed her own hand over it, the size was almost identical, save for a half-inch difference in the pinky finger. She remembered how Maya used to joke, ‘If you ever doubt me, look for my handprint. It’s our secret.’ A week later, I was helping Lena clean the attic and found a box of Maya’s belongings. Among old photos and trinkets was a diary. The last entry, dated the day before the accident, read: ‘I’ve been seeing her in my dreams. She wears a saffron-colored sari and whispers my name. She says she’ll take my place so I can watch over Mom. I’m not afraid.’ We never told anyone, but we both felt a chill. That night, as I slept, I dreamed of a woman in a saffron sari, her face hidden, reaching out to me. I woke to find a small, dark handprint on my arm, as if marked by soot. When I called Lena, she said she saw the same mark on her shoulder. Now, every time I look in the mirror, I see a faint print, slightly smaller than my own, growing more defined. I don’t know if it’s Maya or the woman in saffron, but I know she’s still here, waiting.