It's the summer holidays and I was playing cricket with friends in the empty lot near our houses. As an 18-year-old kid, summer vacation meant endless days of cricket matches and avoiding any thought of the upcoming college year. The afternoon sun beat down on us, sweat dripping from my forehead as I positioned myself to bat. The bowler winded up and delivered, and I swung with all my might. The ball connected perfectly and soared through the air – too far. Too far, in fact, that it sailed over the boundary wall and landed with a soft thud in Anita ji's yard next door. The sound of breaking pottery followed. I froze. None of us liked retrieving balls from Anita ji's property. She kept to herself, rarely interacting with the neighborhood kids. The others looked at me expectantly. "Well? Go get it," one of my friends urged. With a sigh, I walked toward her house, my heart pounding slightly as I approached the gate. Before I could even consider knocking, the front door opened. There she was – Anita ji, holding my cricket ball in her hand. She stepped outside, closing the door gently behind her. The afternoon breeze caught strands of her dark hair as she walked toward me, a small smile playing on her lips. She was wearing a simple cotton saree, the vibrant colors contrasting beautifully against her fair skin. When she reached me, she stopped and held out the ball, talking softly. "Whose ball is this?" she asked, her voice melodic and calm.