Author's Pov:

Shreya was on her way back from the office when the car shuddered to a halt in the middle of the road. Frowning, she leaned forward.
"What happened?" she asked the driver.

He stepped out, checked under the hood, and shook his head. "Madam, it's not a quick fix. Some mechanism has failed—it'll need time."

Shreya sighed, nodding. "Alright."

"I'll try to arrange another cab for you," he offered.

"It's fine," she said softly, already pulling out her phone to book an Uber.

Just then, a sleek black SUV pulled up in front of her car. The door opened, and a middle-aged woman stepped out. Shreya blinked in recognition. She had seen this woman before.

It took her a moment to place her—the Krishna temple. A week ago, Shreya had gone there with her parents. The same woman had accidentally left her purse on the bench. Shreya had noticed, picked it up, and hurried to return it. The woman had thanked her warmly, and in the small wait for her son, struck up a conversation.

Shreya remembered her reluctance that day—how she had wanted to slip away politely. She never enjoyed long conversations with strangers. Yet she hadn't been able to ignore her. The woman's kindness had been quiet but insistent, her questions simple: Shreya's name, her work, her family. Shreya had answered, her usual reserve in place, but without rudeness.

The woman had spoken about her own life—about her social work, her efforts at an orphanage where children learned, played, and were nurtured. For a moment, Shreya had felt something stir within her. This was the kind of work she quietly dreamed of. She had nodded, even smiled, when invited to visit. But she had known herself well enough—unless someone truly insisted, she would never go. Dreams were easier to hold at arm's length.

The memory sharpened now as the same woman crossed toward her. Behind her, the black Fortuner's door opened, and a tall, cheerful young man stepped out. His easy smile reached his eyes as he greeted his mother, then glanced at Shreya.

"Shreya, this is my son, Vihaan," the woman said, introducing them.

Vihaan's voice was warm, unhurried. "Hello. It's nice to meet you."

Caught off guard, Shreya offered a polite nod, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "Hello."

There was nothing more, just a brief moment of civility, and then he ushered his mother back to the car. The Fortuner glided away, leaving Shreya staring at its taillights for a second longer than she intended.

When she turned, her parents were already walking toward her, concern in their faces. She fell into step beside them, quiet again, the encounter folding into her mind like a page she was not sure she would ever reopen.

Present:
The same boy walked beside the woman now, his presence calm yet lively. The woman introduced herself, but as usual, Shreya's mind did not hold on to the name. She never did. Names slipped through her unless they mattered. What she did remember, however, was his—Vihaan.

"What happened, beta?" the woman asked kindly, noticing the stalled car.

"It's not working," Shreya explained politely. "I was booking a cab—it should arrive soon."

She meant it, too, but mostly she wanted to avoid prolonging the interaction, avoid the weight of unnecessary help. Yet the woman insisted with such warmth that refusal felt ungrateful. After a few rounds of gentle protests, Shreya finally nodded. "Okay. Thank you."

Inside the Fortuner, the air felt unfamiliar, yet not uncomfortable. The woman turned to her with a smile. "Tomorrow, we're hosting an event at the orphanage. You must come. No excuses—it's a Saturday, a holiday. I won't listen to any reason otherwise."

Shreya, too drained to resist, agreed. "Alright, I'll try." In truth, she only said it to end the matter.

Vihaan, sitting beside her, joined in with easy conversation. "So you work in government service? I know a few officers in your department. If you ever face trouble, don't hesitate—tell me."

She shook her head gently. "There's no trouble. But thank you. If something happens, I'll let you know."

Soon, the car slowed at her street. Shreya offered to have them come inside, though she knew it was only formality. They declined with equal politeness, promising "next time." She thanked them again before slipping into the comfort of home.

Later, after dinner, she lay awake in bed, replaying the woman's words. The orphanage. Food, education, hobbies, nurturing children from infancy to adolescence. Two campuses—one for the little ones, another for older students. After tenth standard, most moved on to high schools, all expenses covered by the organization. Books, guidance, stipends—everything arranged. And later, when those children became adults, many returned to give back, unasked, out of gratitude.

Her heart stirred at the thought. She had always wanted to do something like this, something meaningful. But her mind resisted. What if it was not as pure as it seemed? Too often, NGOs became masks—scams, money laundering, shadows hiding illegal work. She could not bear the thought of standing in the middle of something corrupt when her intentions were only to serve.

She sighed, turning on her side. "If it's real, if it's pure, then it will give peace—to me, to them," she whispered to herself. "If not... then God will guide me away."

With that half-formed resolution, she closed her eyes. Tomorrow was Saturday. She did not plan to rise early. But sleep did not come easily—not with her heart tugging her forward and her mind pulling her back.

She woke late, around seven-thirty, and moved through the morning quietly—freshening up, sitting with her parents for breakfast, letting the comfort of home settle over her. The day felt unhurried, until her phone rang.

It was Priya.

She smiled faintly at the name flashing on the screen. Priya was more than a colleague; she had managed to slip past Shreya's guarded edges, becoming a friend. Today was her birthday, and she was hosting a party for everyone at work. Shreya knew the drill—laughter, drinks, food she wouldn't touch. She would rather avoid it. But Priya knew her too well. She insisted gently, with warmth that left Shreya little space to refuse.

"Alright," she said at last.

She dressed simply, told her parents she might be late, perhaps around four or five, and headed for the hotel.

The party was lively—bright music, chatter, glasses clinking. Shreya sat among them, polite as always, though the sight of alcohol and non-vegetarian dishes made her inwardly recoil. She hid it well; composure was second nature to her. Still, she was here only for Priya, who beamed when she placed a delicate bracelet around her wrist, a gift chosen days ago with care.

By the time the crowd began to thin, Shreya was more than ready to leave. She slipped outside, phone in hand, opening the cab app.

That was when she saw him.

Vihaan.

He was standing by a black car, instructing men to stack food parcels properly in the back. His presence startled her, pulling her instantly back to the promise she had made—about the orphanage, about today's event.

He noticed her at once. "You're coming, right? Come with me—I'm heading there now."

Her instinct was to refuse, to step back, to retreat into safety. But the words didn't come. Instead, she nodded faintly and followed him.

Inside the car, the silence pressed close. He broke it first. "What were you doing here?"

"Birthday party," she answered, keeping it brief. "Colleague of mine."

He nodded, and the quiet returned, heavier this time. Shreya felt it in her chest—a ripple of unease. Why hadn't she just denied? Why did she step into this car with him, a man she had met only twice? Her mind raced, layering fears over doubts, second-guessing her own choice.

When she glanced at him, Vihaan was smiling.

"You don't talk much, do you?" he teased lightly. "So silent."

"That's how I am," she replied evenly. "I don't like to talk much."

"Relax," he said with a grin. "I'm not going to kidnap you. No need to look so tense."

Her heart stumbled. She hadn't realized her face had betrayed her thoughts. Normally, she could mask herself well—at work, with strangers, in any place she needed to stand firm. But when she relaxed, when she wasn't armored, her emotions spilled out too easily.

"It's not like that," she insisted softly.

"Your face tells the whole story," he countered, amused.

She couldn't help it—an awkward smile slipped through.

He kept the conversation light after that, his words filling the distance she could not. Slowly, the air softened. And before long, twenty minutes had passed, and the car was pulling up in front of the orphanage gates.

Shreya realized she had been wrong. This place was no scam, no false front. She could feel the truth of it in the air itself—in the children's beaming faces, in the joy that radiated from them so effortlessly. Her intuition had always been sharp, and now it told her clearly: this was real. Children could not lie with their happiness; if this had been a façade, their eyes would have betrayed it.

She watched as Aunty moved with ease among them, bending to listen, laughing at their mischief, guiding without effort. Vihaan too had shed his usual composure, crouching to play, switching into broken, playful language just to make the little ones laugh. It was genuine. All of it.

She was lost in thought when Aunty called out, asking Vihaan to check if everything for the evening's event was arranged. He nodded and stepped away. A caretaker approached, carrying a tiny infant—no more than six months old—wailing in hunger. She placed the baby in Aunty's arms. Instantly, the crying stilled, as if the child recognized her touch. Aunty hummed softly, cooing as she prepared a bottle of formula, feeding her with practiced tenderness.

The sound of that cry lingered in Shreya's chest like a wound. She could not fathom how anyone could be so cruel as to abandon such a helpless being.

Aunty's voice was quiet as she explained, "She was left outside the gate. We only realized when her cries rose above the sound of the rain."

Her heart twisted. The thought of that tiny child, alone in the storm, was almost unbearable.

They sat together for a while, watching the children eat, laughing and sharing food like family. When Aunty urged Shreya to join, she politely declined—she had only just come from a party. Aunty herself did not eat either, too occupied with the arrangements. Handing the now-sleeping baby to a caretaker to be laid in her crib, she turned back to Shreya.

"Come," she said gently.

She followed her into the adjoining tall building—the one meant for the older children, aged ten to sixteen. Inside, preparations were underway for a special program to mark sixty years of the initiative. Aunty explained as they walked that it was her mother-in-law who had begun the work, and when the time came, she had taken it forward.

Her family was there too, busy with arrangements, moving with the same effortless warmth that seemed to run through all of them. A cluster of young boys and girls sat together, laughing, teasing, and quarreling like siblings who knew each other's hearts too well. Sarita Aunty led Shreya towards them and introduced her.

"This is Vaidehi," she said with a smile, gesturing to a graceful young woman. "And this is Saumya—she's here with her little daughter, Ruhi. She's just nine months old."

She greet her and smiled at the baby, who clung tightly to her mother's shoulder, her big eyes curious and watchful.

Just then, a man approached, tall and serious, his voice steady as he said, "Everything is ready, Mom. Tell me if you want anything else."

Sarita Aunty beamed and introduced him. "This is Neil, my elder son."

He gave Shreya a polite nod. His demeanor was different from Vihaan's—more reserved, more measured. After a brief exchange, Aunty walked away with him to oversee the final preparations, leaving her in the company of the others.

Soon the guests began to arrive—businessmen in crisp suits, women in elegant sarees, government officials with practiced smiles, and even foreigners who were there to support or fund the work. Conversations floated around her in a gentle hum. When the event began, Shreya took her seat quietly beside Saumya.

The speeches followed, dignified and filled with gratitude. Drinks and water were served, followed by dinner. Relief washed over her when she realized it was all vegetarian, with soft drinks instead of alcohol. She whispered a silent prayer of thanks.

She ate with Saumya, Vihaan, and Vaidehi, who treated her as though she belonged, teasing one another like siblings did. They drew her into their laughter, and against her own nature, she found herself enjoying the easy flow of conversation. Somewhere in the midst of it, she finally learned Sarita Aunty's name and tucked it away in her memory. It felt odd to ask someone their name if they had introduced themselves and she was not paying attention to them.

Then she heard Vaidehi mentioning casually, "As usual, Reyan bhai didn't come."

The name lingered in her thoughts. "Who is  Reyan?" But she let it go.

Her phone rang. It was her mother. A jolt of guilt ran through her as she remembered she had said to be home by five. The clock now said seven. She excused herself and assured her mother she would be home within half an hour.

By now, some of the guests had left. Aunty was still busy, her husband now at her side. Together, they looked like a happy couple—partnership evident in every glance and gesture. Not wanting to interrupt, Shreya quietly told Saumya and Vaidehi she should leave. They insisted that Vihaan would drop her. She refused politely, but soon Aunty and Vihaan returned, and the decision was made for her.

"Did you enjoy the event?" Aunty asked warmly.

Shreya nodded. "Yes, very much. I feel happy knowing your work and seeing you so passionately engaged in it. Your mother-in-law must have been extraordinary to begin something so selfless."

Aunty's husband joined them then, and she introduced him. They extended an invitation to their wedding anniversary celebration the next evening. Shreya forced a polite smile, but the thought overwhelmed her. To step further into these people's lives felt... too much.

"It's getting late," she said softly. "I should go."

Uncle insisted, "Vihaan will drop you."

And she did not argue. She knew they would not let her leave alone.

The ride back was easy, filled with light conversation—Did you enjoy yourself? How did you find the event? She answered gently, grateful but guarded. Midway, Vihaan got a call and slipped into work mode, leaving her alone with her thoughts until they reached her home.

"Thank you," she said as she stepped out.

He reminded her of the anniversary party; she gave the automatic answer she always gave—yes. It was easier to agree than to refuse directly. And in her heart, she knew she would not go.

At home, the familiar ritual awaited. Everyone was gathered for dinner, as they always were whenever possible. It was their unspoken tradition. After freshening up, she joined them. She ate little, for she was not hungry, but the sight of food prepared by her mother softened her will. She took small bites, joined in the laughter, and for a while, the weight of the day lifted.

Later, in the quiet of her room, she knew with certainty: she would not go to the party. She was no one to involve herself in their family. Today was enough. More would be dangerous.

But as she drifted into bed, her thoughts returned to the orphanage. To Sarita Aunty. To the tiny girl they had named Noor. To the laughter of children who carried no lies.

Aunty was living the dream Shreya once held—to help children grow strong, to nurture them into kind and capable beings. Not envy, never envy—only hope. Hope that one day, if life allows, she too can build something like this.

For now, she has the means, but not the people. She has money, but no trust. Alone, she could not begin. But perhaps someday... if the chance came, she would give her all.

With that final thought, her eyes closed. Sleep took her, carrying her gently away.

***