The rain had softened to a mist by the time the car rolled into the office compound. The security guard at the gate straightened as soon as he saw the vehicle, raising his hand in a half-salute. She acknowledged him with a nod, and he quickly stepped aside to let the car through.
At the entrance, the receptionist was already holding the day's visitor log, even though she never had to sign it herself. "Good Morning ma'am", she greeted, her tone naturally warm but edged with certain formality. Inside the lobby, two junior staff members stood talking, but the moment they spotted her, their voices lowered. One of them quickly moved to hold the elevator door open. "Morning, ma'am", they said in unison, as though it were a part of their daily routine. She smiled politely and stepped in.
On the way up, she glanced at her reflection in the steel panel of the lift. The saree simple but neatly pleated, her hair pulled back without a strand out of place. She didn't dress to impress - but to be respected.
The lift opened to the top floor, where the corridor was quieter. Her cabin was at the far end - a corner with wide windows that let in the pale morning light. The brass nameplate on the door bore a single line of crisp, engraved letters - Apoorva. No prefixes, no elaborate titles - yet the name itself carried weight.
It was spoken in meetings with the same care one uses for a promise, not out of fear, but respect. She had earned her place not through noise or display, but by standing firm when others faltered, by speaking truth without coating it in convenience.
Everyone who knocked on her door knew exactly who sat inside - A woman whose position was as high as her heart was humble. The qualities which were appreciated by others were not gifts handed to her overnight. They were the results of years spent quietly shaping her character - through trials that tested her resolve, moments that demanded patience, countless decisions made with unwavering strength.
As the clock struck 5, she gathered her things and slipped out of office, the day's weight slowly lifting from her shoulder. She drove toward Roohi's school, anticipation softening the edges of her tired mind.
Roohi was waiting eagerly near the gate, her eyes shining with excitement. As soon as she get into the car she started talking which is her daily ritual, "Mama, today our teacher told us a story about a little girl who faced big challenges but never gave up", she said breathlessly. "She was so brave and everyone loved hearing about her".
Her mother smiled, intrigued by the spark in her girl's eyes. Roohi tugged her mother and asked, "Our teacher asked us to share stories similar to it along with the deadline, Can you please help me to tell a story that's really special?"
Her mom nodded, sensing more than just a simple assignment in Roohi's request. "Of course, sweetheart. We'll find best stories together!".
That night, as Roohi fell asleep with a soft smile, her mom sat alone in the quiet room, her thoughts drifting to a long-forgotten book resting on the shelf. The book had remained untouched for years, its spine worn and pages yellowed - a collection of stories that once held great meaning and shaped her but had been set aside and forgotten. For reasons she rarely allowed herself to face, the book had stayed closed, its words silent, waiting for the right moment to be heard again.
The book that once quietly shaped her own understanding of strength and patience, now seemed to call out from its dusty shelf. Perhaps, she thought, this was the moment fate had been waiting for - the moment when her daughter was ready to hear those stories, when the timing was finally right. Maybe, just maybe, God had created this very time for those words to come alive again, passed down from one generation to the next.
As she gently pulled the book from the shelf, a quiet smile touched her lips. It wasn't just Roohi who was about to hear these stories for the first time - she herself was stepping back into the pages, becoming a little girl once more, revisiting memories long tucked away. The worn cover felt like an old friend welcoming her home, and with every word she read, a fresh wave of emotions stirred inside her as if the story was being written anew for both of them.
She gently covered the worn book's faded cover, tucking the edges carefully as if to protect it from further wear. The leather was cracked, the title barely visible through years of use and time's gentle erosion. Holding it close, she opened the pages, letting the familiar weight of the book ground her as she prepared to share its stories with Roohi - stories that carried a quiet strength waiting patiently to be told.