Six months after the tower opened, Rohan pulled his car up to a modest but modern apartment building on the outskirts of the city. He wasn't alone. In the passenger seat was a leather-bound portfolio—the first-ever scholarship grants from the Asha Design Foundation.
He climbed the stairs to the third floor and knocked.
The door was opened by a young woman who shared Asha's dark, expressive eyes, but without the shadow of illness. This was Anjali, Asha's younger sister. She was dressed in professional attire, her laptop bag slung over her shoulder, ready for her day in the tech industry.
"Rohan," she said, her face lighting up with a genuine, sisterly warmth. "You're early. Roy just called; he's picking up the flowers for the site."
"I wanted to drop these off first," Rohan said, handing her the portfolio. "The first batch of students has been selected. All of them are from middle-class backgrounds. All of them are 'invisible' talents who just need a door kicked open."
Anjali traced the gold-embossed name on the cover: The Asha Architecture Scholarship. Her eyes shimmered. "She would have hated the attention, you know. She'd probably tell you you're being too dramatic."
Rohan laughed, a sound that was now full and healthy. "She definitely would. She'd call me a 'playboy' and tell me to go back to my club."
They walked out together toward the city center. As they drove, the Skyline Tower loomed ahead, a permanent landmark of glass and steel.
"Do you still go there?" Anjali asked softly. "To the top floor?"
"Every Tuesday," Rohan admitted. "Roy and I meet there at sunset. He brings his guitar, and I bring... well, I bring my silence. We listen to the building sing."
"She saved us, didn't she?" Anjali whispered, looking at the tower. "She was the one who was sick, the one who was struggling, but she's the reason we're all standing so tall now."
Rohan pulled the car to the curb near the entrance of the tower. He looked up at the spire, which was catching the morning light. He thought about the night in the club, the pasta sauce, the handbag, and the rare, beautiful months in Roy's house.
He realized that Asha hadn't just built a tower; she had redesigned the lives of everyone she touched. She had taken a playboy and made him a man of purpose. She had taken a grieving musician and given him a song that would never end. And she had taken her sister and given her a world where she would never have to be afraid of the dark.
"She didn't just save us, Anjali," Rohan said, his voice filled with a quiet, enduring love. "She showed us how to live."
As Rohan stepped out of the car, the wind picked up, and for a brief, magical second, a low, melodic hum echoed through the plaza. It was a soft, haunting note—a greeting from the sky.
Rohan adjusted his jasmine pin, looked up at the sun-drenched glass, and smiled.
"Good morning, Architect," he whispered.
Then, he walked into the building she had built, moving toward the light that would never fade.