Silk Moths Don't Return

Maya's reflection stared back at her from the cathedral bathroom mirror, a stranger wrapped in yards of hand-embroidered silk. The dress alone cost more than what Maria, who was currently mopping the floor behind her, would earn in ten years. Two hundred thousand dollars of white silk and crystal beading, designed to transform her into the perfect Malhotra bride. The same silk that had arrived three months ago in a box carved from sandalwood, accompanied by a note that read: *"Tradition meets luxury. Just like our families."*

She remembered Maria's reaction when the dress first arrived at the cathedral for storage. *"It's beautiful,"* she'd said, her weathered hands hovering over the fabric without touching it. *"But beauty can be its own kind of prison, no?"* That was the moment Maya had first felt seen—really seen—in months.

"Is everything alright, Miss Maya?" Maria's voice carried the lilt of genuine concern that had drawn Maya to confide in her over the past month of wedding preparations. Each morning, Maya had arrived early to the cathedral, supposedly to oversee the arrangements. In reality, she came to sit with Maria, drinking chai from a thermos and sharing the kind of truths that only flourish in dawn's half-light.

Their conversations had started small. Maria mentioned her son's motorcycle accident, her voice tight with worry about the medical bills. The next day, Maya had brought an envelope with three months' salary. *"It's nothing,"* she'd insisted when Maria protested. *"Really. I was just going to spend it on shoes anyway."* They'd both understood the unspoken weight of that gesture—how it defied every boundary their worlds had built between them.

Maya's fingers traced the intricate beadwork at her waist, each crystal catching the light like frozen tears. "They say silk is made from suffocating butterflies."

The bathroom door creaked open, and Maya's mother's voice cut through the air. "Five minutes, beta. The Malhotras are getting restless. And fix your dupatta—it's slipping on the left. Rohit's mother is already commenting on your 'modern' upbringing."

The door clicked shut before Maya could respond. She'd spent twenty-five years watching her mother perfect that trick—delivering commands disguised as concerns, then vanishing before anyone could object. The same way she'd announced Maya's engagement: *"The Malhotras' son has agreed to the match. Isn't that wonderful, beta? Now, what should we serve at the engagement party?"*

That dinner played on repeat in Maya's mind. Rohit, Harvard-educated and impeccably groomed, ordering for her without asking. *"The ladies in our family don't eat garlic,"* he'd said with the practiced smile of someone accustomed to being obeyed. *"Best to start adapting now."* Later, he'd spent forty minutes describing his plans to "modernize" her father's company, speaking only to her father as if Maya were part of the table decorations.

"Your mother means well," Maria said, leaning her mop against the wall. Her uniform might be faded, but it was pressed with military precision—the same way Maya's mother insisted every pleat in her clothing be perfect. "She wants to protect you."

"By selling me to the highest bidder?" Maya's laugh was hollow. "The Malhotras' money will save Father's company, and their name will keep our family's status intact. A perfect business transaction." She smoothed the dupatta with practiced hands, muscle memory from a lifetime of adjusting herself to meet expectations.

Last week, she'd overheard her father on the phone: *"Yes, the merger will be finalized after the wedding. The Malhotra boy drives a hard bargain, but the marriage secures everything."* Just like that, twenty-five years of being his "precious beta" reduced to a line item in a contract.

Maria's weathered hands stilled on the mop handle. "Sometimes the best cage is made of gold."

Maya met Maria's eyes in the mirror. In the month since she'd started working at the cathedral, Maria had listened to Maya's fears without judgment, shared stories of her own arranged marriage, and somehow understood everything Maya couldn't say aloud. Like how Maya's father hadn't hugged her since she turned twelve—"appearances matter, beta"—or how her mother's smile had become increasingly brittle with each passing year.

"I can't do it." Maya's whisper seemed to echo off the marble walls. "I can't marry someone I've met twice, someone who looks through me like I'm just another asset to acquire." She thought of yesterday's rehearsal dinner, how Rohit had casually mentioned their post-wedding plans: *"You'll love Singapore, of course. The apartment's already furnished—my mother handled everything. And once we have children, you won't be bored."*

"Then don't."

Maya turned, her dress rustling like whispered secrets. "What?"

Maria stepped closer, her cleaning uniform a stark contrast to the luxury surrounding them. "I wore a dress like that once. Different circumstances, different price tag, same cage." She touched the silk sleeve of Maya's gown. "I spent thirty years wondering what would have happened if I'd been brave enough to choose differently."

"They'll find me." Maya's voice shook. "Father has connections everywhere. Last year, when my cousin Priya tried to elope, they found her at the airport within hours. She's in Singapore now, married to a man twice her age."

"Perhaps." Maria began unbuttoning her uniform jacket. "But they won't be looking for a cleaning lady." 

Understanding dawned slowly, then all at once. "Maria, no. They'll blame you."

"Let them." Maria's smile held the quiet strength of someone who had made peace with invisibility. "I'm sixty-three years old, Miss Maya. My children are grown. My husband is gone. And I've spent my life watching people like your family look past people like me. It's about time that blindness worked in someone's favor."

Maya's hands trembled as she reached for the zipper of her dress. "Why would you do this for me?"

"Because thirty years ago, someone offered to help me escape. I was too afraid to take their hand." Maria shrugged off her jacket. "Maybe helping you will balance that karma." She paused, then added softly, "And because last week, when you found me crying about my son's accident, you gave me money for his surgery without hesitation. Three months' salary, you said it was nothing."

"He needed it more than I needed new shoes." Maya stepped out of the dress, the cool air raising goosebumps on her skin.

"Exactly." Maria helped her into the uniform. "That's why you deserve better than being someone's property. Better than becoming like my sister-in-law, who hasn't left her house in fifteen years because her husband thinks it's improper."

The next ten minutes passed in a blur of fabric and whispered instructions. Maya's designer dress transformed Maria into an unlikely bride, while Maria's uniform gave Maya the perfect disguise—the kind of person the wealthy trained themselves not to see. Maya helped Maria with the complicated fastenings, their roles reversed as her hands moved with practiced grace over hooks and buttons.

She thought of all the times she'd watched the cleaning staff at home, how they seemed to fade into the background like living shadows. How many times had she herself looked past them, trained by years of subtle conditioning to see the uniform rather than the person? Now that same invisibility might be her salvation.

"There's a service entrance by the kitchen," Maria said, adjusting the veil. "Turn left, then follow the alley to St. Mark's Street. My sister runs a women's shelter there. Tell her I sent you." She pressed a worn key into Maya's palm. "The blue door, third floor. Carmen will help you."

"What will you tell them?"

"That the bride needed a moment alone to pray. That when I came to check, the window was open." Maria's eyes crinkled. "They'll believe what they expect to believe. Just like they believe all their daughters are happy, all their marriages are perfect, and all their servants are content."

Maya hugged her, breathing in the familiar scent of lemon cleaning solution and rose water. "I'll find a way to repay you."

"Live free. That's repayment enough." Maria straightened the veil, then turned Maya toward the service door. "Now go. And Maya?" She waited until Maya looked back. "The butterfly doesn't die in the silk. It transforms."

Maya slipped through the door, her heart pounding against borrowed polyester. She passed three wedding guests in the hallway, their designer clothes and jewelry worth more than Maria's annual salary. None looked twice at the cleaning lady carrying a bucket of supplies. One woman—her father's cousin—even handed her an empty champagne glass without looking up from her phone.

The cathedral kitchen buzzed with catering staff too busy to notice another uniformed worker. Maya's designer heels, now hidden in the bucket, clicked against each other as she walked. She recognized the head chef—he'd catered every major event in her life, yet his eyes slid past her without a flicker of recognition. He was too busy arguing with someone about the temperature of the champagne. Ten steps to the service entrance. Five. Two.

Cool air kissed her face as she stepped into the alley. Behind her, organ music began to play—the wedding march, right on schedule. Maya turned left, her borrowed shoes squeaking slightly on the wet pavement. A group of teenagers passed by, laughing about something on their phones. One bumped into her, then apologized without looking up.

A siren wailed in the distance. Maya forced herself to keep walking at a steady pace, even as her pulse quickened. The sound grew louder, then faded, heading in the opposite direction. She thought of her father's voice when he'd announced the engagement: *"The Malhotras can save us, beta. Sometimes we must sacrifice for family."* The same tone he'd used when telling her to give up art school: *"Proper young ladies don't paint, beta. What will people think?"*

St. Mark's Street was three blocks away. Maya had walked it countless times in silk and diamonds, but never in a cleaning uniform with fear and freedom dancing in her chest. She passed shops where she'd spent thousands without thinking, their employees now looking through her as if she were invisible. Through one window, she caught a glimpse of a TV news report—something about a high-profile wedding uniting two of the city's most prominent families.

The blue door waited ahead, its paint peeling like the layers of a life she was leaving behind. A woman in a sari hurried past, a toddler on her hip. The child waved at Maya. She waved back, remembering how her mother used to scold her for talking to "the help."

She reached for the key, then froze. A sleek black car crawled past the shelter's entrance, its tinted windows reflecting the afternoon sun. Maya's father had a car exactly like it—the same model he'd promised would be her wedding gift, *"Once you've settled into your new role."*

The vehicle stopped at the corner.

Maya's fingers tightened around the key as she watched the back door begin to open. In her mind, she heard Maria's voice: *"The butterfly doesn't die in the silk. It transforms."*

The door swung wide.

*The End*