In the narrow, sun-warmed streets of the old town, where the scent of jasmine danced through the air and time seemed to slow with the rhythm of everyday life, there lived a woman known to all as the singing lady. Her real name was Humaira—a name whispered with affection by children and remembered with nostalgia by elders. Every morning, as the first light spilled over the terracotta rooftops, Humaira would step onto her small balcony, a steaming cup of chai in hand. Then she would sing. Not loudly, not for attention, but with a voice so pure and aching with emotion that even the birds seemed to hush in reverence.
