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Shavasana The room was silent except for the shallow, uneven rhythm of her breath. Devika lay on the cold, cracked wooden floor, arms and legs spread wide, eyes closed-not in peace, but in defeat. The teacher called it Savasana. The corpse pose. "Lie still," Ma Nayana's voice whispered through the air like a secret only the walls could hear. "Be here. Be with yourself." But Devika wanted to run. She had run from her mother's death. From the jagged edges of grief that cut deeper than any blade. From the questions she couldn't answer, the silence that screamed too loud. She had run from herself. Now, here in this strange studio smelling of sandalwood and sweat, Devika faced the stillness she'd buried for years. The stillness that felt like a void-and maybe, just maybe, a beginning. Because sometimes, to heal, you have to become the corpse. Not to give up. But to let everything fall away-pain, anger, fear-until all that's left is the raw, trembling pulse of life underneath. She didn't know it yet. But this was where her journey began.