The morning at Shanti Sadan Orphanage did not arrive with the gentle, golden sunlight or the familiar, comforting clatter of tea cups that Khwahish used to know. It arrived at precisely five-thirty with the sharp, deafening clang of an iron bell—a heavy brass tongue striking a rusted plate hung in the central courtyard, vibrating through the cold plaster walls of Ward B.

The dormitory stirred instantly. Thirty thin cotton floor mats rustled as young girls scrambled upward in the dim gray twilight.