Ayan had spent the first seven years of his life in the bustling orphanage on the outskirts of the city, a place filled with the echoes of laughter and tears from dozens of children like him. With his tousled black hair and wide, curious eyes, he was known for his quiet resilience—always helping the younger kids with their chores or sharing his meager snacks. But deep down, Ayan dreamed of a family, a place where he could belong.
One crisp autumn morning, the orphanage director called him into her office. "Ayan, there's a couple here who want to meet you," she said with a warm smile. His heart raced as he entered the room. There sat Mr. and Mrs. Sharma, a middle-class couple in their late thirties, dressed simply but with kind faces. Beside them was their daughter, Priya, a bright-eyed girl of ten with pigtails and a mischievous grin.
"Hello, Ayan," Mrs. Sharma said softly. "We're the Sharmas. This is our husband, Rajesh, and our daughter, Priya. We've heard so much about you from the director. Would you like to come live with us?"
Ayan nodded shyly, his small hands clutching the edge of his worn shirt. The Sharmas weren't wealthy—they owned a modest tailoring shop in the city—but they had a cozy home and hearts full of love. After a few meetings and paperwork, the adoption was finalized. On a sunny afternoon, Ayan waved goodbye to his orphanage friends and climbed into the Sharmas' old car, clutching a small backpack with his few belongings.
As they drove through the winding streets, Priya chattered excitedly about their home, their dog, and the games they could play. Mr. Sharma hummed a tune, and Mrs. Sharma turned back to smile at Ayan. "Welcome to the family, beta," she said. For the first time, Ayan felt a spark of hope. This was his new beginning.