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She was a woman who had spent a lifetime giving, and yet the deepest part of her remained untouched in ways that only the quiet hours revealed. Her name was Meher, though most people still called her Principal Sahiba out of long habit, even after she had left the government school behind. At fifty-eight she carried herself with the same quiet authority that had once made entire corridors of teenage students fall silent when she walked past. The years had not diminished her. If anything, they had refined her. Her hair, once jet black, was now threaded with silver that she refused to dye, gathered into a soft knot at the nape of her neck. She dressed simply but with care: cotton salwar kameez in muted jewel tones, a light chiffon dupatta that always smelled faintly of the rose attar she dabbed behind her ears, and a thin gold chain that held a small locket containing faded photographs of her two children when they were small. Those children were no longer small. Her son, Ayaan, lived in Toronto with his wife and their young daughter. Her daughter, Sana, had settled in Melbourne after marrying a soft-spoken Australian of Pakistani origin. Both were successful, both were settled, both called her every weekend without fail. Meher took quiet pride in that. She had raised them to be independent and kind, and they had become exactly that. When they visited once a year, the house filled with noise and laughter again for a few precious weeks. Then the silence returned, heavier than before. Her husband, Tariq, had retired two years earlier from a long career in the provincial civil service. He was a good man. Steady. Loyal. He still brought her morning tea exactly the way she liked it, still insisted on driving her to the university on rainy days, still held her hand during the evening walks they took around the colony park. Their marriage had never been dramatic. It had been built on mutual respect, shared values, and the practical partnership.