"Five hundred a month. One month's rent as deposit."
The landlord handed Nora a heavy iron key and pushed open the creaking gate.
The courtyard was small but charming in its simplicity. A weathered osmanthus tree stood at its center, and two narrow rooms framed the yard like tired sentinels. Weeds crawled over a forgotten garden bed.
It wasn't glamorous, but to Nora, it was freedom.
She signed the lease without hesitation.
"The Jones family lives next door," the landlord added, pointing west. "They're good folk."
That evening, as she pulled weeds from the garden, a soft voice called from beyond the gate.
"Miss? You just moved in?"
Nora turned to see a plump woman with a gentle smile and a bamboo basket covered in cloth.
"I'm Maria Jones," the woman said kindly. "Call me Aunt Maria. I brought dinner. You look like you could use a hot meal."
Nora blinked, stunned by the gesture. When Aunt Maria lifted the cloth to reveal warm buns and braised pork, she felt her throat tighten.
It had been so long since someone cared.
She whispered a thank you and accepted the food. That night, she ate quietly in her little courtyard and cried—not from sadness, but from the unfamiliar warmth in her chest.
For the first time in two lives, she didn't feel quite so alone.