chapter 1

She was the kind of girl who drew people effortlessly. Her laughter echoed through the crowded college halls, and everyone seemed to know her name. To her classmates, she was cheerful, confident, and the life of every gathering. When she entered the canteen, conversations would pause just to greet her. When she walked through the corridor, someone was always calling her to join a group.

And yet, beneath the surface of that extroverted cheerfulness, a softer longing lived. She was not lonely—her phone was always buzzing with messages, her weekends filled with plans. But in quiet moments, when she lay awake at night, she often wondered: Is this all there is? Just chatter, jokes, and noise?

The college campus was loud with energy. Buses honked at the gates, lecturers hurried past with thick files in their arms, and the canteen smelled of samosas and steaming tea. She joined the laughter, she joined the noise, but she also knew something about herself that her friends didn’t: after classes, she preferred a different world.

Every evening, she would take the same path home. And along that path stood a house—a small, old house, its walls faded with time. What made it remarkable was not the house itself but the garden that surrounded it. Roses of every color climbed the fences and spilled across the yard. Every time she passed, she slowed down. Sometimes she pretended to adjust her bag or tie her shoelace, but the truth was simple: she couldn’t take her eyes off the roses.

The house was not grand, but it had character. Its paint peeled in places, the windows looked weathered, but the roses transformed it into something magical. Red roses heavy with dew in the morning, soft pink ones leaning toward the sunlight, white ones glowing like pearls in the dusk—she felt as if the flowers themselves were alive, whispering stories.

She never saw anyone in the garden until one warm afternoon. The old iron latch clicked, and the gate creaked open. A woman stepped outside, her hair silver like moonlight, tied neatly in a bun. She was wearing a simple cotton sari, and her eyes—though tired—carried a spark that made the girl stop.

“You like the roses, don’t you?” the woman asked with a faint smile.

The girl flushed. She hadn’t realized she’d been staring too long. “Yes… they’re beautiful. I pass this way every day just to look at them.”

The woman’s smile widened gently. “Then don’t just stand outside, child. Come in. The roses are meant to be shared.”

That moment changed the rhythm of her days.

The first time she stepped inside, she felt as though she had entered a different world. The scent of roses hung thick in the air, mingling with the earthy smell of watered soil. The garden was wild yet lovingly cared for, every bush carefully pruned, every plant arranged with thought. It wasn’t just a garden; it was a home for memories.

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