Wounded Heart ✔

Chapter 1

The road that led to the orphanage was unlike any other. Flanked by flowering gulmohar trees and guarded by a wrought-iron gate inlaid with delicate motifs of vines and doves, it seemed to mark the threshold between the ordinary world and a sanctuary crafted with love. Beyond it stretched acres of well-kept grounds, where cobblestone paths wound through gardens fragrant with jasmine and roses, leading to a sprawling sandstone building whose arched windows spilled soft golden light into the twilight.

This was not just an orphanage—it was a haven, one of the finest in the country, looked after with meticulous care by AK. But its true uniqueness lay in the fact that it was also a subsidiary blend with an old age home, where abandoned elders and parentless children lived side by side. Here, every child found not only shelter but every relation they might yearn for—grandparents to tell them bedtime stories, uncles and aunts to spoil them, siblings to share their laughter and secrets. And the elders, once left forgotten by their families, found new purpose and new love in the innocent eyes that looked up to them with trust and warmth.

Within its walls, dignity was not a privilege—it was a birthright. Each child who entered was carefully looked after, their pasts never erased but respected. Background checks were done thoroughly; and when the time came for them to leave, they were not sent into the world as nameless or forgotten souls. Instead, they carried with them a record of both their adopted and biological families, a complete identity, so that no one could ever point fingers at their origins or question their place in society. They left not as orphans, but as individuals with roots, wings, and the courage to face the world.

Education, healthcare, clothing, and every necessity of life were fully provided. More than that, AK ensured they had opportunities—languages, arts, sports, skills—so they would not just survive but flourish. The walls were painted in colors chosen by the children, their laughter echoed through gardens that they had helped plant, and in every corner lingered the quiet promise that this was a home, not an institution.

The orphanage and old age home together had become a circle of healing, where broken bonds were mended not by blood, but by love and respect. And at the heart of it all stood AK—the silent guardian whose vision ensured that no child would ever feel abandoned, and no elder would ever feel forgotten.

The dining hall was alive with the unrestrained energy of life itself. Children's voices rose and fell in a chaotic harmony—some squealing with laughter over a shared joke, others bickering with the dramatic seriousness only youth could summon, while the older ones sat with quiet composure, their patience far beyond their years. The long tables, polished to a gentle shine, were laid out in rows, waiting for the food that always arrived with warmth, laughter, and love.

Beyond the chatter, the kitchen carried its own symphony: the clang of utensils, the rhythm of knives against chopping boards, the bubbling of curries simmering on stoves, and the undertone of low conversations between helpers. In the heart of it all stood a young woman in her twenties, her slender form poised before the stove. Her hands moved with practiced ease, stirring, tasting, adjusting with the instinct of someone who cooked not out of duty, but out of love. A serene smile graced her lips, soft and unshakable, as though the happiness of the children outside had found its mirror within her.

"Ira," a gentle voice called.

The young woman turned, and the glow from the stove seemed to catch her face just so—illuminating innocence wrapped in maturity, a beauty unadorned yet radiant, and eyes that held both joy and unspoken depth.

"Yes, Rose? Do you need something?" Ira asked, her tone tender.

Rose, the elderly matron who had overseen Little Roses for decades, leaned against the doorway, watching Ira with the fondness only a mother's heart could carry. "Why do you insist on cooking for the children every weekend? You visit nearly every day, and every time you bring them something from your own kitchen. Isn't that enough, child?"