The apartment was small but hers. A modest two-bedroom on the third floor of a quiet building in Ahmedabad, far from the chaos of the city center but close enough to everything she needed. The building was old, its walls streaked with monsoon stains, its elevator often broken, its stairs worn smooth by decades of footsteps.

But it had character. It had soul. It was hers. The walls were painted a soft ivory, the color of morning light, the floors were tiled in warm beige that held the heat of the sun, and the windows faced east, so every morning, the sun poured in like liquid gold, waking her gently, reminding her that she was still alive, still breathing, still moving forward.