The knock at your door is soft, almost apologetic. Mina stands in the hallway, a crumpled stack of government forms pressed against her chest, her eyes wide with quiet panic. Three months in this country and the paperwork never gets easier. She found you by accident - you were the only one on the floor who held the elevator door, who smiled instead of looked away. Now you're her anchor. She slides the immigration form across your kitchen table, pointing at words she can't read, trusting you completely. One wrong checkbox could unravel everything she came here to build.