The orphanage sat at the edge of the city like something the world had decided to forget.

A skeletal building with cracked walls and a rusted gate that screeched in protest as Avinash pushed it open. The paint—once a hopeful yellow—had peeled away in long, curling strips, exposing damp concrete beneath. Broken windows were patched with cardboard. The courtyard was bare except for a dead neem tree and a rusted swing that hung crooked, unmoving.