A woman stood there—thin, tired, wearing a faded Kaftan. Her hair was tied loosely. Her eyes were red, like someone who cried often but quietly. Beside her stood a small boy, around five years old, holding a broken toy truck.
"Radhe ji," the woman said softly.
It was *Miss Mili*, his landlady.
A single mother.
The only person in the entire building who sometimes asked him if he had eaten.
Her husband had died in the war. and her whole world was gone. All the promises, all the dreams, all the plans… vanished like smoke. She was young, strong, but her eyes always carried a sadness that refused to leave.
Her husband had left her with this small building—two apartments. She lived in one, rented the other. And she worked day and night, washing dishes and doing household chores in other people's homes just to feed her son.
She had no relatives who cared. Her parents had died when she was nineteen, and her husband's family abandoned her after his death. They said she was "bad luck".
But she never complained. She kept working, kept living, kept smiling for her child.
Tonight, though, she looked nervous.
"Radhe ji…" she said again, her voice trembling. "I… I came for the rent."
Radhe scratched the back of his neck awkwardly.
"Mili… I told you. I will give it in two days," he said.
Her face fell.
Not slightly.
Completely.
Because he hadn't paid last month's rent either.
And she was struggling too.
"Mili… please, just two days," Radhe repeated. "I— I'm trying. Believe me. I'm trying."
The small boy tugged at his mother's Kaftan and whispered, "Maa… I'm hungry."
Mili nodded quickly, embarrassed.
"I know, beta. We will eat soon."
Radhe's chest tightened.
He didn't feel guilty because he owed her money.
He felt guilty because she—a struggling, hardworking woman—had to come to him, a grown man, to ask for something she deserved.
"My situation…" Radhe said, swallowing hard, "it's bad. But I will pay. I swear I will pay."
She looked down. Her fingers twisted together nervously. She didn't want to pressure him, but she clearly needed the money.
"I understand, Radhe ji," she said softly. "But… the building tax is due… and I don't have enough savings left. I am scared sometimes… that I may not be able to keep this place."
Her voice trembled as she tried to stay strong.
Radhe felt his heart twist painfully.
He wanted to tell her that everything would be fine.
But right now, even his own life wasn't fine.
"I'll manage," she said quickly, covering her sadness with a fragile smile. "I'm sorry for disturbing you at this hour."
"Mili, wait," Radhe said. "I will pay. I won't run away. I'll make sure you get the money."
She nodded, but her eyes told him she was still worried.
"Thank you, Radhe ji," she whispered.
She turned to leave.
The little boy looked back at Radhe and gave a small wave with his tiny hand.
Radhe waved back.
The door closed.
Silence filled the room.
Radhe sat on the edge of his bed, his elbows on his knees, his hands covering his face.
"Dammit…" he whispered.
Not because of rent.
Not because of money.
But because he could see pain in someone else's eyes… and he couldn't do anything.
Yet.
And something inside him—something old, something fierce—woke up.
He wanted to protect her.
Her son.
Her small world.
Not because he pitied her.
But because she reminded him of himself—fighting alone, struggling alone, surviving alone.
He lay on his bed but couldn't sleep. Her sad face wouldn't leave his mind. His life had fallen apart, but hers… hers had been shattered long before.
He whispered into the darkness, "Two days. I'll fix everything in two days."
The next morning, he woke up early, washed his face with cold water, and stepped out into the city. He walked into workshops, factories, garages, even small repair stalls.
But everywhere he heard the same thing—
"No vacancy."
"No space."
"You're overqualified."
"You're asking too much salary."
"We will call you later."
"Sorry, try next month."
Hours passed.
By evening, his legs were numb. His throat dry. His stomach empty.
But he didn't stop.
He couldn't stop.
When he returned home, he saw something that almost broke him.
Mili was sitting on the stairway, her head resting on her knees. Her son was sleeping in her lap. Tears were dropping silently from her eyes.
Radhe walked closer.
She quickly wiped her face and forced a smile.
"Radhe ji… you're back early?"
He shook his head. "This is late, Mili. I've been walking all day."
"Oh…" she whispered. "Did you find a job?"
"Not yet," he admitted. "But I will."
She nodded, trying to hide the worry on her face.
Radhe sat beside her on the stairs.
"Sister Mili, listen," he said softly. "I'm not running away from responsibility. I meant what I said. I'll pay the rent in two days. Even if I have to break stones or wash cars."
She looked at him with tired eyes.
"I know you're not a bad man," she said. "But life… life is very hard right now."
Radhe sighed. "Hard is fine. Impossible is not. I don't believe in impossible."
She smiled a little.
Then she said something that surprised him—
"You know… you and I, Radhe ji… we are not so different."
Radhe blinked. "What do you mean?"
"You lost your dreams," she said quietly. "And I lost my family. Both of us are trying to survive in our own ways."
He didn't know what to say.
She continued, "But we have to keep trying. For my son. For yourself. For everything that is still left."
Radhe nodded slowly.
Her strength humbled him.
Even broken, she still stood tall.
Even tired, she still smiled for her child.
He wanted to help her.
Not out of pity.
Not out of guilt.
But because she deserved better.
Radhe stood up.
"I'll fix everything," he said firmly.
Mili looked up at him.
"How?" she asked.
He smirked—a dangerous, determined smirk.
"The same way I fixed broken engines," he said. "Piece by piece."
But destiny had its own plans.
And the twist was coming.
A big one.
Because when Radhe reached his apartment door, he noticed an advertisement in the
news paper for a post of professor in the upo academy of science and technology.
This collage is known for its hard admissions and have the top professors in the world .
The professors are chosen by a test from which only 10% survive .