Serina and Zryan have crossed paths throughout the years, their bond growing with each fleeting moment.
But love is not always kind. One day, Zryan arrives at her doorstep, not alone, but with a wife by his side, shattering the fragile dreams she h...
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"Some souls are meant to meet again and again, like the tide returning to the shore, like the storm chasing the calm. Fate does not forget what the heart remembers." — Unknown
Present Time
The rain lashed against the windshield, a rhythmic drum against the glass, drowning out everything but the tension thickening the air. Headlights flickered through the darkness, slicing the wet road ahead, but inside the car, the storm was quieter than the argument brewing between Zryan and his wife.
"You never listen!" she snapped, her voice cutting through the hum of the engine.
"Because you never stop talking!" Zryan shot back, gripping the wheel tighter. His knuckles were white, his patience thinning like the mist outside.
The little girl in the backseat was silent. Her father had fastened her seatbelt carefully before the journey, gently placing headphones over her ears as if shielding her from the storm inside the car, not just the one outside.
His wife exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "I don't know why I even try."
"Neither do I." His voice was quieter this time, resigned.
The tires skidded slightly as he took a turn. The road glistened with rain, a mirror reflecting the chaos above. And then—
Headlights. A deafening honk. A crash.
Darkness.
And in that last moment, before the world shattered around them, her voice cut through it all—soft, bitter, and final.
"You are cursed, Zryan. Everything you touch will be ruined."
Swat, Pakistan – The Beginning
Serina had come to Swat for her uncle's wedding. She had never seen such beauty, such happiness. The men looked so alive as they danced around the fire, their movements wild and free, shadows flickering under the lanterns. Music drifted through the valley, blending with the crisp mountain air and the distant murmur of the river winding below.
Her older cousin Layla and she had joined a group of children who were chasing each other, their laughter carrying into the night like fireflies flickering in the dark.
Children run like whispers of the wind, chasing laughter, chasing dreams, never knowing they are dancing in the echoes of paradise.
However, amongst them, one child stood out, not because he was running with them, but because he had chosen not to. He sat between Serina's father and another man who bore a strong resemblance to the boy. He was quiet, his posture still, listening. His dark eyes caught Serina's for a second before he looked away.
