Later that evening, after the children had gone to bed, the shelter fell silent, save for the soft chirping of crickets and the occasional bark from Rumi. Aditi climbed up to the rooftop with a blanket draped over her shoulder and a mug of warm tea in her hand. Rumi followed close behind, settling beside her as she lay down on the cool tiles.

The night sky was breathtaking—clear and filled with a million stars. Aditi stared up, her chest rising and falling as a wave of emotions washed over her.

She hugged the blanket tightly, her tea forgotten beside her. Her thoughts wandered to the parents she never knew, the faces she had only imagined in fleeting dreams.

"Wherever you are," she whispered, her voice trembling, "I hope you know I turned out okay. I hope you'd be proud of me."

Her vision blurred as tears rolled down her cheeks, but she didn't wipe them away. Instead, she let them flow, feeling the bittersweet ache in her heart.

She wasn't sad—not entirely. There was a deep well of gratitude mingled with the pain. Gratitude for the life she had built, for the kids who gave her a reason to wake up every morning, for the second chance life had given her when she was at her lowest.

"I wish I could have met you," she said softly, her words carried away by the gentle breeze. "Just once. To tell you thank you... and to ask why you couldn't stay."

Rumi whined softly and nudged her with his nose, sensing her sadness. Aditi smiled through her tears, reaching out to stroke his golden fur.

"I'm okay, Rumi," she said, her voice breaking slightly. "I'm okay."

She shifted her gaze back to the stars, her tears slowing as a small smile crept onto her face. "I'm so lucky. So, so lucky," she murmured. "I get to see their smiles. Hear their laughter. Love them like I wish someone had loved me."

The stars twinkled above her, as if they were listening. Aditi closed her eyes and took a deep breath, the cool night air filling her lungs.

"I'm grateful," she whispered, her voice steady now. "For everything."

As she lay there, the heaviness in her chest began to ease. She let the vastness of the night sky cradle her, a reminder that while she may never have the answers she sought, she had built a life full of meaning, love, and hope.

And that was enough.

Diwali was always a special time for Aditi. Growing up, it had been a quiet affair, filled with longing and loneliness. But now, as an activist and guardian to countless children, Diwali had become a symbol of joy, love, and giving. Every year, she made it her mission to bring the spirit of the festival to the shelter.

This year was no different. Early in the morning, she gathered all the children together in the yard, their faces glowing with excitement. She handed out boxes of sweets to everyone, watching their eyes light up as they savored each bite.

"I want you all to know," Aditi said, her voice full of warmth, "that Diwali isn't just about lights and sweets. It's about the light we bring into each other's lives. And you, every single one of you, bring light to mine."

The children cheered, clapping in unison, their faces radiant. Aditi smiled, her heart full. She was the lucky one, the blessed one, to have them in her life.

Later that afternoon, Aditi took the entire orphanage to the market for new clothes. The children giggled and ran around, their laughter echoing through the streets as they picked out colorful kurtas, shimmering lehengas, and brightly colored saris. Aditi, who had always been careful with her money, spared no expense. She had saved up all year for this moment.

"You can pick anything you want," Aditi told them, smiling as a little girl tugged at her sleeve. "Go ahead, choose whatever makes you happy."

She watched as the children picked out clothes with wonder in their eyes, some of them picking things they had never even dared to dream about. Aditi didn't care about the cost. To her, the joy on their faces was priceless.

One by one, the kids came up to her, holding up their chosen outfits, and she would nod approvingly, her heart swelling with pride. Even the shyest of children seemed to come alive with the excitement of picking out something beautiful.

"Look, Aditi Didi! I got a yellow kurta just like the one in the store window!" said one of the boys, his face glowing with happiness.

"That's wonderful!" she exclaimed, her eyes sparkling. "You look amazing already!"

After they had picked their clothes, Aditi took them to a special store for Diwali sweets and gifts. She let them pick out whatever they wanted—chocolates, decorative diyas, and even toys they had longed for. Some chose candles, while others picked out little sparkly bangles to wear with their new clothes.

Aditi couldn't stop smiling as she watched the kids choose their treats, their faces filled with joy and excitement. The day was theirs, and she was determined to make it as special as possible.

That evening, as the sun began to set, the shelter was transformed. Aditi had decorated every corner with strings of marigold flowers and twinkling fairy lights. Diyas, tiny clay lamps, lined the walls, casting a soft glow over everything. The children were dressed in their new clothes, their faces bright with happiness.

They sat together for a feast that Aditi had arranged—plates piled high with laddoos, kheer, samosas, and all the traditional Diwali treats. She didn't waste a single crumb, ensuring that every child was fed and happy.

"Eat as much as you want," Aditi said, smiling at the kids as they devoured the food. "There's plenty for everyone."

She didn't drink, not ever. Her focus was always on her mission and the children she had sworn to protect. As she watched them eat, her heart swelled with a sense of fulfillment. She couldn't remember the last time she felt truly at peace, but now, with the children she loved so deeply around her, it was impossible to feel anything but contentment.

The night ended with fireworks lighting up the sky. The children ran outside, their laughter filling the air as they marveled at the bursts of color above them. Aditi stood quietly in the background, watching the magic unfold.

"I did it," she whispered to herself. "I gave them the Diwali they deserve."

She knew, deep down, that this was more than just a celebration. It was a promise. A promise to always give, to always love, and to never waste a single moment.

The day after Diwali, Aditi arrived at the shelter, already brimming with excitement from the previous night's festivities. The kids were still riding high on the joy of the celebration, their energy infectious as they played and laughed around her.

She was walking through the yard when she noticed a familiar face—Shubman Gill. He had arrived at the shelter early this morning, quietly helping the older boys set up a game of cricket. Aditi hadn't expected to see him so soon again, but there he was, in his usual casual style, laughing with the boys.

Just then, a chubby toddler, who couldn't have been more than two years old, tottered over to Shubman. She reached out her little hands, barely able to walk properly, but determined to get to him.

"Babygirl, come here," Shubman said, crouching down with a huge smile as he scooped her up effortlessly. His deep voice was soft and playful, calling her "cutie" and making silly noises that sent her into a fit of giggles.

Aditi stopped in her tracks, watching the scene unfold in front of her. Shubman's whole demeanor had shifted—he was so gentle, his big hands cradling the toddler as if she were the most precious thing in the world. He kissed her chubby cheek, his voice full of warmth as he said, "Awwww, you're so sweet, aren't you?"

The sight of him holding the toddler, so tenderly, without a care in the world, made Aditi's heart flutter unexpectedly. She swallowed hard, feeling a warmth rise in her chest. It wasn't just the sight of his kindness that made her pause—it was something else. Something a little... unexpected.

She smiled to herself, shaking her head as she walked past. No, Aditi, not now. You've got work to do. But even as she told herself that, she couldn't quite shake the feeling in her chest.

"You're making her giggle like that," one of the older boys called out to Shubman, "she really likes you."

Shubman chuckled, still holding the little girl, and waved the boy off. "I know, I know," he said with a grin. "She's a charmer, isn't she?"

Aditi couldn't help but glance back, watching them for just a moment longer. Shubman was so natural with the kids, so effortless in his affection for them. She bit her lip, pushing down whatever strange feelings had bubbled up.

But as she walked away, she couldn't deny the small fluttering feeling in her stomach.

At the shelter, Aditi treated every child with the same love and warmth, whether they were healthy, disabled, or somewhere in between. She moved through the rooms with ease, talking to the children as if there was nothing different about them. To her, they were all precious, all worthy of love and attention.

One of the disabled children, a little boy named Aarav, had cerebral palsy. He had limited movement and spoke only a few words, but his bright eyes were always full of curiosity. Aditi had learned his specific needs, and while she never made a big deal of it, there was a subtle care in how she looked after him.

She would always approach him softly, with a warm smile. As she sat beside him on the floor, she never let him feel like he was being treated any differently. She spoke to him just as she did with the other children, often asking him about his day, even if he couldn't always respond the way she hoped. She would gently adjust his position, making sure he was comfortable, without drawing attention to his condition.

"How are you doing today, Aarav?" she would ask, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. "Did you have fun with the others?"

Sometimes, Aarav would blink his eyes slowly, which Aditi had come to understand as his way of saying yes. Other times, she would hold his tiny hand, guiding it to a toy or a book, and he would respond by smiling brightly. The connection between them was unspoken, but it was deeply felt.

Whenever Aarav needed something, whether it was a snack or help with a toy, Aditi made sure to attend to him with the same energy and love she gave to all the other children. But there was always a gentleness in her touch, a quiet care that only those who truly paid attention would notice.

On this particular day, as Shubman played with the older boys, Aditi found herself sitting beside Aarav, watching him giggle as a butterfly landed near him. She gently guided his hand to touch the butterfly's wings, helping him connect with nature in the way he always loved.

"You see that?" Aditi whispered, her voice soft as she smiled down at him. "You're just like that butterfly, Aarav. Beautiful in your own way."

Shubman, overhearing Aditi's soft words, watched for a moment. He'd seen how Aditi interacted with every child, and there was something about her way with Aarav that touched him deeply. She didn't treat the disabled kids like they were fragile or less than the others—she made them feel special, like they belonged, just as they were. It was a kindness that wasn't loud or obvious, but something more powerful in its quiet sincerity.

Aditi never made a show of it, but it was clear she had a unique bond with all the kids, disabled or not. She didn't separate them into different categories—each child, in her eyes, was worthy of love, attention, and respect.

And as she sat beside Aarav, her hand resting gently on his, Shubman felt a surge of admiration for her. It wasn't just her passion for the children, it was the way she made them feel seen, valued, and whole. The tenderness she showed was something he could never have expected, but it was exactly what these children needed.

In that moment, Shubman knew that Aditi's heart was as vast as the world itself, big enough to hold every one of them, just as they were.