Humaira had a wooden box she kept beneath her bed. It was old—worn smooth by time and touch, its corners faded from use. Inside were fragments of a life no one in the town had ever seen: yellowed photographs, sheet music with handwritten notes, a gold brooch shaped like a bird in flight. She opened it only once a year—on a quiet evening when the wind carried the scent of rain and the town seemed to hold its breath. That night, she would not sing.
