Spring in the hill town of Daryal was a quiet bloom. Everything moved slower, softer, like the world itself was still waking up. On a small balcony overlooking the valley stood sixteen-year-old Aarohi, cradling her sketchbook and staring at the old peepal tree across the yard. Her gaze stopped at a tiny green leaf, newly sprung from a thin branch.
"It's like me," she whispered, drawing its curve with a soft pencil stroke. "Not yet ready. But trying."
Aarohi was new to Class 11. A new school, new classmates, and unfamiliar hallways that echoed too loud. Raised by her grandmother, Nani, in a quiet home with stories instead of TV, she often found herself out of place among the louder, faster world of her peers.
Every evening, she sat by her window and sketched. Always the same leaf. It changed daily, just a little, like she did. She called it her mirror. Her journal entry that night simply read: "Sometimes I feel like a leaf… new, unsure, waiting to find my color."