India, June 13 -- In the orderly lanes of New Officers' Colony, Ambala City, every house wore its number with bureaucratic pride - 12-A, 12-C, and in between, the mysterious 12-B. It didn't take much imagination to understand that it was House Number 13, camouflaged in decorum. Officially, the number didn't exist because superstition demands we tiptoe around certain digits as though they possess dark powers. But to us, it wasn't cursed. It was simply home. My father, a man of reason rooted in quiet faith, shrugged at the taboo. "A number doesn't build or break a home," he often said. "People do." He stepped into that bungalow with unshaken belief, his truth louder than any superstition. And the house - sun-drenched, breezy, full of corners that clung to memories - welcomed us like an old friend waiting to be proven right. Its verandah, framed by bright bougainvillaea, saw birthday parties, board exam breakdowns, laughter loud enough to rattle windows, and silences deep enough to echo in memory. We lived, loved, and learnt inside its walls. I still remember the summer I fell from my bicycle during an unofficial race around the colony and returned home with 13 stitches - yes, 13. The doctor grinned, "Lucky number?" and added, "No fracture, no drama - except her performance." My mother sighed, "Only her bicycle's heart is broken." That moment, oddly enough, cemented our family joke: Thirteen isn't a jinx, it just makes for a good story. Another unforgettable moment was during a power outage in the colony on Friday the 13th. Some neighbours lit candles nervously, whispering "Thirteen's up to tricks". Our house, however, was lit up in full glory. The old wiring had been replaced by the farsighted electrician a week ago. The fuse had blown in the entire row, except ours. "See," said my father, raising an eyebrow, torch in hand: "Thirteen seems to be the only one with a sense of humour." That night, neighbours gathered in our lawn under the moonlight, sipping tea, children playing shadow games, the myth deflating like an old balloon. My mother later said, "Thirteen didn't fail us. It hosted everyone." That night the myth wavered, if only slightly, and reason, if only for a while, held sway. We grew up in that house - siblings turning into adults, dreams taking shape at study desks where sunlight streamed in through lattice windows. The backyard held mango trees and badminton rallies; the kitchen knew the recipe to every emotion. No superstition dared touch the harmony that thrived within those walls. My father's conviction wove itself into us: Truth matters more than tradition, and joy doesn't check your address. A house is not just walls and roof, it is the shell of our lives. Years later, when people still raised eyebrows at the mention of "that number", I smiled. They hadn't heard our laughter echo down those halls. They hadn't seen the small victories, the resilience in quiet moments, the ordinary magic of a home that stood tall in reason. It wasn't a number that made our house memorable, it was the life that bloomed inside it. As Mark Twain once said, "Superstition is born of ignorance and thrives on fear." But we lived through Number 13, disproved the myth with stitched knees, candlelit evenings, and a thousand warm memories. It was never unlucky. If anything, it was extraordinary in its ordinariness. And that's why even today, when I pass by houses afraid of the number, I think back to 12-B, our Number 13 in disguise, and know we were lucky not despite it, but perhaps because of it and my father's words echo, "All numbers are good. In all truth abides, no devil hides."...