Years passed . . . . . . . . The girl with no name grew under a tin roof and in-between whispered stares. They called her “ Maya ” — a name the matron picked from an old prayer book . But deep down , Maya knew she wasn’t born with it . She felt like a borrowed thought—never really belonging .She didn’t speak much, didn’t smile often. But she loved one thing : the swing beneath the gulmohar tree. Every evening , as the other kids played, Maya sat on it alone, swinging slowly . It was old, creaky,