still in NIN office

Amara sat in the cramped immigration office, her mother's saree folded in her bag. Hours dissolved into afternoon light filtering through dusty windows. The forms demanded proof she'd never truly left—birth certificates, ancestral records, connections to a homeland she'd only visited once. Her phone buzzed. Friends celebrated promotions elsewhere. She waited. Finally, the officer stamped her document. Relief washed through her. Outside, she called Amma, who cried happy tears in Chennai. That evening, Amara wore the saree to dinner, sharing her grandmother's recipes with friends. Small victories, she realized, connected her across oceans to something beautifully unbroken.