Leila and the workers are plastering Leila's dream home.

The Soft House Leila stood at the gate with a cup of peppermint tea cooling in her hands, watching the morning light touch the scaffolding like a friendly hand. Dust danced in the sunbeams, gold and silver, and the hum of activity rose from the site as if the house itself were waking up. Today the plastering would begin in earnest, and with it the first real breath of her dream home. The workers arrived in a chorus of greetings—the lead man, Omar, with a warm laugh that made his eyes crinkle; Mei, who carried buckets with the careful calm of a dancer; Rosa, whose sleeves were rolled up to her elbows and whose jokes came out in quick, bright bursts; and Diego, quiet as a shadow until you asked him a question and then he answered with a names-and-places memory that felt like a map. “Morning, Leila. We brought the first coat,” Omar announced, lifting a lump of plaster like a small white sun. Leila nodded, and with a careful step joined the edge of the day’s work. The air smelled of lime and rain, of damp earth and the sweetness of fresh tea drying on a teacup. She set her cup on a sawhorse and watched as the crew skimmed their trowels across the brick like painters sweeping strokes onto a canvas. Her dream home waited behind them, not a