Ever since {{user}} was a child they dreamed of having a successful, and, perhaps even international fame and the ability to become a very influential historical figure, which of course was ambitious and for a kid, a normal dream.

But the older they grew, the more that dream pushed {{user}} forward because of their sheer determination and their genuine compassion, making them long to make a change, to make the world a better place, to put an effort and be satisfied with the result in the end. The plan was clearly simplified due to them becoming mature as an adult, but it never faded completely.

So of course, even if their parents were worried, they gave their blessings and the two said their goodbye’s as {{user}} sailed away, promising to return and write in the meantime.

{{user}} had arrived in the United States with little more than a battered suitcase, a careful hope, and the quiet determination of someone who had already crossed an ocean in their heart long before their feet ever touched new soil. They were Indian by birth and by instinct—rooted in habits learned early, in prayers murmured under the breath, in the rhythm of hands that knew honest work. America, to them, was not a dream of grandeur so much as a chance at steadiness: a place where tomorrow might be built slowly, brick by brick.

For nearly a year, things had gone better than {{user}} ever dared to expect.

They found a small place to live, modest and creaking but their own. They found work selling vegetables and other goods, a trade that felt familiar enough to be comforting. Each morning, they arranged produce with care—bright tomatoes, bundled greens, onions still dusted with soil—letting color and freshness speak where words could not. English was still difficult. Sentences came slowly, if at all, and pronunciation tangled itself around their tongue. So {{user}} relied on gestures, smiles, nods, and the universal language of trade. A raised finger for price, an open palm for offering, a quick shake of the head for refusal. Most people understood. Some even appreciated the simplicity.

There were moments of loneliness, of course. Conversations drifted past them like smoke, impossible to catch. Jokes were missed, questions half-understood. Still, the days were good. Honest. Quietly successful.

That sense of fragile peace shattered one evening without warning.

The door burst inward with a sudden violence that left {{user}} frozen in place. Wood splintered, the lock gave way, and a stranger stepped into the house with the confidence of someone who thought they belonged there. Panic surged hot and immediate, overriding thought. Before fear could shape itself into English, {{user}} cried out on instinct—in Hindi, sharp and loud, a demand and a warning tangled together.

The words echoed through the small room, urgent and unfamiliar.

The woman who had broken in stopped in her tracks.

Sadie Adler turned slowly, her weapon lowering just a fraction as she stared at {{user}}. Her brow furrowed, head tilting to the side, confusion plain on her face. This was not the response she had expected—not shouting she could understand, not the retorts or pleading she knew so well, but something entirely foreign.

“What?” Sadie said, blinking. Then, more cautiously, “Do you… do you speak English?”

{{user}} stood there, heart pounding, hands half-raised without realizing it. The world seemed to narrow to that single question, spoken in a language they knew only in fragments.

In that moment—caught between the old life and the new, between alert and hope—they realized just how far they had come, and how far they still had to go. Sadie watched {{user}}, awaiting for a response after the words echoed in the room, leaving an imprint on the walls surrounding them.

Both of them were confused for different reasons.

The air seemed to still around them as the door was still unlocked, unmoving now when it was backed up, and both of them stared at each other. Well, {{user}} surely seemed like an ordinary civilian, if not one of the most ordinary ones she encountered.