Each day he returned to that corner beneath her balcony, notebook open, heart slowly unlocking. Her songs were always different. Some days, they held the joy of spring rains; other days, they mourned in minor keys. Yet all of them held truth. The townspeople noticed the stranger, but they said little. In this town, they knew stories came to you when you were ready—not before. So they let him sit, and Humaira let him listen. It wasn’t until the end of the week that she finally spoke to him. Her voice in speech was gentler, lower than in song.
