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As Esfandiyar drove through the winding streets of his city, the evening sky darkened, heavy clouds looming above, ready to unleash their burden. A sense of unease settled over him, something different in the air that made him think of her. Even though he knew she wasn't here in Pakistan, he felt her presence lingering like a whisper. A bittersweet smile crossed his lips as memories flooded back, memories tinged with the weight of his betrayal.
Just then, his phone vibrated against the dashboard, breaking through his thoughts. He glanced at the screen and felt a surge of emotions as he read the message: "Mien ne apna wada pura kiya ab tumhari bari!" The words seemed to dance in front of his eyes, and despite the sadness that clung to him, a genuine smile broke through.
As if the sky understood his feelings, the first drops of rain began to fall, tapping softly against the windshield. He turned up the volume of the car radio and let the soothing melody of "Barishien" fill the space around him. The song's familiar notes resonated deeply, weaving a connection between the past and the present.
"Baarishein yoon achanak huyi,
To laga tum shehar mein ho."
He sang along softly, letting the music transport him. With every word, he felt her presence more strongly, as if she were right beside him. The rain poured down in earnest now, transforming the city into a glistening canvas, each droplet reflecting the fading light.
"Raat bhar phir woh jab na ruki,
To laga tum shehar mein ho."
The streets shimmered, each light dancing in the puddles that formed. He imagined her here, laughing as they splashed through the rain, her joy infectious. The memories tugged at his heart, a reminder of the happiness they had shared, now shadowed by his regret.
"Kahin ek saaz hai goonji,
Teri aawaz hai goonji."
As he sang, he pictured her smile—the way it could light up even the darkest days. It was as if the rain was an echo of their laughter, a melody that brought them closer despite the distance. He could almost hear her voice, soft and sweet, mingling with the rhythm of the rain.
"Shaam phir khoobsurat hui,
To laga tum shehar mein ho."
The city felt alive around him, each heartbeat synchronized with the rain. The clouds rolled and rumbled, yet he felt a sense of peace wash over him. The bittersweet memories transformed into a canvas of hope; perhaps there would be a chance to make things right.
"Door hoke bhi nazron se tum,
Har lamha har pehar mein ho."
He leaned back in his seat, letting the melody wash over him like the rain outside. Though they were far apart, he felt her presence in every moment, in every beat of the song. It was a reminder that love could transcend distance and time, weaving an invisible thread that connected them.
"Ik tera raasta,
Ik mera raasta,
Nahio rehana ve judaa."
He closed his eyes briefly, envisioning their paths merging once more. The hope of reconciliation flickered within him, igniting a spark of courage. The rain continued to fall, and he sang louder, pouring his heart into each note, determined to let go of the past and embrace what lay ahead.
As the final notes of the song faded into the hum of the engine, he felt a newfound resolve. The clouds, though heavy, could not dampen his spirit. The rain was cleansing, washing away the weight of his regret and leaving behind a sense of renewal. He was ready to face the future, whatever it might hold, knowing that love, even when tested, could still shine through the darkest storms.
_________________________________
She sat in front of the window, fingers wrapped around the warm ceramic of her coffee cup. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth, as if the world itself had been washed clean overnight. Outside, the sky stretched in hues of gray and gold, the clouds moving slowly as though weighed down by their own melancholy. She inhaled deeply, letting the aroma of coffee mix with the distinct, sharp freshness of the morning. But as she exhaled, her thoughts slipped into the past, and with them, a long, silent tear traced its way down her cheek.
"I loved you all," she whispered to no one, her voice trembling, almost fragile, "and you all made me pay for my love."
Her gaze wandered beyond the window, but she wasn't looking at the world outside—she was looking at memories, at shadows of the past that still clung to her like ghosts refusing to be exorcised. The weather was different today. It smelled different, felt different, as if something in the air was shifting, bringing with it an omen or a promise—she couldn't tell which.
A soft giggle broke her reverie. She turned slightly to see Raina standing near the doorway, talking animatedly to someone, her face glowing with happiness. Hoor watched her for a moment, absorbing the energy radiating from her child, but before she could say anything, a sudden warmth engulfed her from behind. Small arms wrapped around her shoulders, and she felt a tiny kiss land on her cheek.
"Aap tya ter ri o?" Maheen's sweet, broken words reached her ears, pulling her further into the present.
(What are you doing?)
Hoor smiled and turned slightly, cupping her daughter's face. Maheen's innocent eyes were filled with curiosity as she noticed the book in her mother's hands. "Aap par ri o?" she asked again, her childish voice stumbling over the words.
(You are studying?)
Hoor nodded, brushing away the dampness from her cheek before Maheen could notice. "Ji, hum padh rahe hain," she replied softly. "Aap kahan thi?"
(Yes, I am studying.)
(Where were you?)
Maheen giggled again and climbed onto her lap, snuggling into her warmth. "Me laira te thath thi," she answered proudly, her tiny hands now playing with the pages of the book.
(I was with Raina.)
Hoor held her close, pressing a kiss into her daughter's hair. For a moment, the ache in her chest lessened, replaced by the simple, untainted love of her child. The past could wait—at least for now.
Maheen reminded her of someone—someone very close to her heart, someone she had been yearning for every second of every passing day. Her son. Azmeer Damiyar Shah. The name itself was enough to send a sharp pang through her chest, twisting the knife deeper into the wound that never healed. They had snatched him away from her, stolen him like a thief in the night, and left her with nothing but emptiness and the unbearable weight of loss.
She hated them.
Hate. It was such a strong word, such a dark and dangerous feeling. Hoor had never wanted to hate anyone, had never thought she would harbor such venom in her heart for another human being. But Miraal Damiyar Shah—her presence alone spread a suffocating, negative energy, polluting everything it touched. And to say that Hoor hated her would be an understatement. She despised her. Along with her so-called husband, the man who had once been hers, the man who had vowed to stand by her side but had instead become her greatest betrayer.
Her fingers clenched into fists at the thought of them, her nails digging into the soft flesh of her palm. It should have been her. Azmeer should have been with her. She should have been the one to watch him grow, to hear his laughter fill the walls of their home, to hold him when he cried. Instead, she was left alone in this hollow existence, suffocating under the weight of stolen motherhood.
A soft touch pulled her out of the storm raging inside her.
"Mama?" Maheen's voice was gentle, laced with curiosity and a hint of concern. Her tiny hands reached for Hoor's wrist, her little fingers barely wrapping around it. The warmth of her daughter's touch brought her back to the present, grounding her in the reality she had left behind while drowning in her sorrow.
Hoor blinked, her gaze settling on Maheen's innocent face. Her big, expressive eyes—so full of love and trust—were searching hers for reassurance. This child. This beautiful, pure soul was the only thing keeping her from completely falling apart.
She forced a smile, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind Maheen's ear. "Baby, Mama has to go somewhere. I will be back soon, okay?"
Maheen's lips formed a slight pout, but she nodded obediently. She was always so understanding, so mature for her age. It both comforted and pained Hoor—her daughter should not have to be this way. She deserved a childhood free from sadness and uncertainty.
Maheen leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on Hoor's cheek, her small arms wrapping around her mother's neck in a warm embrace. "I lub you, Mama."
Hoor felt her throat tighten. She closed her eyes, inhaling the sweet scent of her daughter's hair, allowing herself a moment of solace in her arms. "I lub you too, meri jaan," she whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
As she pulled away, she stole one last glance at Maheen before stepping toward the door. The moment she turned away, the mask she had been wearing slipped, and the turmoil returned to her eyes. She had somewhere to be—someone to face. And she was ready for it.
She picked up her bag and stepped out of the house, closing the door behind her with a soft click. The house was small, modest—nothing like the grandeur she had once known, the palatial home she had once called hers. But despite the stark contrast, she was content with her life now. She had found solace in simplicity, in the love that surrounded her. Everyone in the Shah family cherished her presence, but no one adored her as much as Agha Jaan Alam Shah. Her husband's grandfather, a man of wisdom and kindness, held a special place for her in his heart. He loved her to the core.
The morning breeze carried the faint scent of flowers as she made her way through the narrow lanes. After a few minutes, she stood in front of the school gates, her gaze fixed on the building ahead. Her heart clenched at the sight. This place held a significance greater than bricks and mortar—it was a sanctuary of hope for her son. She was well aware of Meer's condition. He was an extraordinarily sharp-minded boy, his intelligence evident in the way he perceived the world. Yet, he remained withdrawn, unresponsive, cocooned in a shell that no one had been able to break.
The Shah family had tried everything to make him happy. They had showered him with love, attention, and all the luxuries a child could ever dream of. But none of it had worked. In a desperate attempt to help him, they decided to send him to school, hoping that the company of other children might bring a change, that he would make friends and rediscover the joy that seemed to elude him.
But even here, nothing changed.
She saw him sitting on the bench, his small frame hunched over, lost in thought. His expression was blank, yet his eyes carried a storm of emotions. A storm he refused to let out.
"Assalam o Alaikum," she whispered as she sat beside him, her voice soft, hesitant. He turned his head slightly, his eyes meeting hers for the briefest moment. She saw it—the emotions he never voiced, the unspoken words trapped within. But as always, he didn't reply.
"Aap mama se baat nahi karoge?" she asked gently, her voice laced with longing. She reached out, caressing his cheek, hoping for a reaction, a flicker of acknowledgment. But he remained still, silent.
(You will not talk to your mother?)
Determined, she lifted him into her lap, wrapping her arms around him, holding him close. He felt so small, so fragile. She tilted his chin up, offering him a warm smile before placing a kiss on his forehead, then on his cheeks, then his tiny palms.
"Meer? Baby, please mama se baat kar lo. Ek baar?" Her voice cracked with emotion as she ran her fingers through his soft hair, pushing them away from his forehead. It was then that she noticed it—the scratch on his elbow. Her heart lurched at the sight of it, and before she could stop herself, a tear slipped down her cheek. She wiped it away quickly, not wanting him to see her weakness.
(Meer? Baby, please talk to your mama. Just once?)
"Aapko chot kaise lagi, Meer?" she asked, her concern evident
(How did you get hurt?)
The question seemed to ignite something in him. His expression hardened, and he abruptly pulled his arm away from her reach. Before she could say another word, his attention shifted. She followed his gaze and saw their driver approaching the school gate. And then, she saw her—Miraal. The woman who had taken the role of his caretaker in her absence.
Meer's demeanor changed. He stood up, taking a step back, putting distance between them. His small fists clenched, his body tensed as though bracing himself for an inevitable confrontation. He turned to face her, his face a mixture of pain and defiance.
"Aap meli mama nahi hon," he said, his voice carrying the weight of his heartache. "Mama aishi nahi hoti."
(You are not my Mother.) (Moms are not like this.)
A chill ran down her spine at his words. He wasn't just rejecting her—he was accusing her. By "aisi," he meant mothers don't stay away from their children. They don't leave them to be raised by others. They don't abandon them.
Before she could process the blow his words had dealt her, Miraal stepped out of the car, concern evident on her face. She took a step toward them, wanting to intervene, to mend the rift. But before she could reach them, Hoor turned away. Without another word, she walked toward her car, her heart aching, her soul heavy with the weight of her son's words.
She had lost him. And she didn't know if she would ever get him back.
______________________________
Damiyar stepped off the plane, his grip firm around Ezriel as he held the child close to his chest. The little boy's warmth seeped into him, grounding him in a way that nothing else ever had. He pressed a soft kiss to Ezriel's chubby cheek, the small, sleepy murmur of the child making his heart clench with an emotion so deep it scared him. Ezriel was his, in every way that mattered.
A small, contented smile played on his lips as he inhaled deeply. He was here. Near her. So close that he could almost feel her presence in the very air around him, her scent lingering in his memories. The smile widened, a rare sight, and Inayat, walking beside him, caught a glimpse of the dimple that appeared on his cheek. It was the first time she had ever seen it. For a moment, she was too surprised to look away.
The airport buzzed with life—announcements echoing from speakers, the hurried footsteps of passengers, the occasional beep of luggage carts, and the faint scent of coffee from a nearby café. Families reunited with tearful hugs, travelers moved past each other with varying degrees of excitement and exhaustion, and taxi drivers waited at the exit, calling out to potential customers.
As they moved towards the exit, Damiyar's steps slowed. His gaze locked onto a familiar figure standing near the entrance—his father. Diyyan Shah, his younger brother, stood beside him, his stance relaxed but observant.
Damiyar saw the shift in his father's expression. At first, there was happiness, a fleeting moment of relief that his son was back. But then, as his eyes fell upon Ezriel, the color drained from his face. The joy was gone, replaced by something colder—sadness, then anger. Damiyar felt the sting of it, the silent accusation hanging between them like a storm cloud.
His father didn't believe him. Even after everything, after all the battles he had fought, he was still doubted. The ache in his chest deepened, but he did not move to stop his father when he turned away and left, his footsteps echoing against the polished airport floor.
Diyyan exhaled slowly beside him, his gaze flickering between their father's retreating figure and Damiyar's unreadable expression. But instead of dwelling on it, he stepped forward and pulled Damiyar into a firm embrace.
Damiyar hugged him back, feeling the unspoken support in the gesture. When they pulled apart, Diyyan's eyes landed on Inayat and Ezriel. He neither greeted Inayat nor touched Ezriel, but his expression was curious.
Just as Diyyan bent to pick up the luggage, Damiyar reached out and gripped his arm, his voice calm but firm and murmured in his ear. "Esfand ki biwi hai, Inayat, aur uska beta, Ezriel."
(She is Esfandiyar's wife, Inayat and his child Ezriel.)
Diyyan's face lit up instantly. "T-to matlab aapka inse koi taluq nahi?" There was relief, almost comical in its intensity, as if he had been waiting for this confirmation.
(That means you have no relation with them.)
Damiyar smirked, shaking his head. "Mama lagta hoon main is aam ki gitak ka?"
(I am this little devil's Uncle.)
Diyyan chuckled, the tension in the air dissipating slightly. He reached out and gently placed his hand on Inayat's head in a gesture of acknowledgment before leaning down to kiss Ezriel's forehead.
"Aapki gitak bhi hai ghar mein," he muttered, smirking as he hoisted one of the heavier bags onto his shoulder. "Aapko nako chane chabwaye ga."
(You have one at home too.) (It will make your life a living hell.)
Inayat, who had heard him, burst into laughter. "Main sun rahi hoon!" she teased, shaking her head at the brothers. She seemed different and strong today, Esfandiyar thought.
(I can hear that.)
Diyyan only grinned, but there was warmth in his voice when he said, "Bhai, ghar chalain. Bohat kuch badal gaya hai."
Damiyar nodded, but his mind lingered on his father's reaction. Something told him that this homecoming would be anything but not peaceful.
The sleek, black Rolls-Royce Boat Tail purred to life as its doors swung open, revealing an opulent interior lined with the finest leather and handcrafted wood. The car gleamed under the evening lights, a masterpiece of elegance and wealth. Diyaan and his family slid into their seats, the weight of luxury settling around them like a warm embrace. Outside, the guards took their positions, a silent wall of security ensuring their safety.
"Oye, chotte!" Diyaan teased, reaching over to tug at Ezriel's soft cheeks with an impish grin. The boy let out an immediate, high-pitched wail, his big, expressive eyes welling up with unshed tears.
Inayat, who had just settled in, gasped dramatically, her maternal instincts flaring to life. She scooped Ezriel into her arms, pressing soothing kisses against his reddened cheek. "Oh, my baby! Diyaan, what is wrong with you? Can't you see how delicate his skin is?" she very sweetly scolded, rocking Ezriel gently while glaring at her mischievous cousin.
Diyaan winced, caught between regret and amusement. "I was just playing! He's not made of glass!" he mumbled, rubbing his neck awkwardly. But as he turned to Ezriel, who was still sniffling in Inayat's embrace, he sighed. "Alright, alright. Sorry, okay? No hard feelings?" he muttered half-heartedly, shooting the little boy a mock glare as if Ezriel had done something to deserve his teasing in the first place.
Ezriel, still nestled in Inayat's arms, sniffed loudly and glared back at Diyaan with the ferocity only a child could muster. It was a silent battle of wills—one that Diyaan was determined not to lose. But before he could say anything else, a low chuckle made him turn his head.
Damiyar had been quiet the whole time, his sharp eyes scanning the surroundings through the tinted windows, lost in thought. Now, as he finally turned his attention to the commotion inside the car, his gaze locked onto Diyaan. It was a slow, pointed look, one that needed no words. A warning.
Diyaan's smirk faltered. He knew that look well. It wasn't just about Ezriel—it was a reminder. A reminder that Damiyar didn't tolerate unnecessary chaos, especially in closed spaces. With a dramatic sigh, Diyaan leaned back into his seat, folding his arms. "Alright, fine. I won't pull his cheeks again. Happy now?"
Damiyar simply returned his gaze to the window, his silence an answer in itself.
Meanwhile, Inayat continued cooing at Ezriel, smoothing his curls and whispering sweet nothings into his ear. The little boy had long since recovered, now basking in the extra attention he was receiving. Now and then, he would shoot another tiny glare at Diyaan, as if making sure his point had been made.
The ride continued in a comfortable silence, the Rolls-Royce gliding smoothly over the roads like a ship sailing across still waters. Diyaan, unable to sit still for long, soon pulled out his phone, scrolling through messages with a pleased look on his face. He was in a good mood, despite the minor scolding.
As the city lights flickered past the tinted glass, Damiyar remained quiet, his mind elsewhere, while Inayat hummed softly, still holding Ezriel close. The guards followed in their own vehicles, ever watchful, ever present.
"Bade Abu, Lala?" Aina stepped closer to her father and whispered, her voice barely audible. She knew the risk—her father could erupt anytime, anywhere.
(Father, Brother?)
He looked down at her, placing a firm yet gentle hand on her head. Then, without a word, he cast a side glance at Alam Shah—his father. The silent exchange was enough to send a chill through the entire mansion.
A sudden blare of car horns from outside pulled everyone's attention to the entrance.
Badi Ami, Damiyar's mother, rushed forward, desperation in her eyes. She folded her hands before Alam Shah, her voice trembling. "Agha Jan, aaj kuch mat kahiye ga. Please."
(Agha jan, please don't say anything.)
Alam Shah's gaze lingered on her for a moment before shifting toward the doorway. And then, he saw him.
Damiyar entered with a woman beside him.
That was it. A single glance at his mother and Alam Shah turned away, heading wordlessly to his room.
Damiyar took a deep breath, steadying himself before stepping into the mansion. The air was thick with tension, the kind that wrapped around his throat like an invisible noose. His gaze locked onto his grandfather, Alam Shah, whose piercing eyes held the weight of unspoken words. A storm brewed in those aged, unyielding eyes, and Damiyar knew he had just stepped into its center.
Before he could brace himself, his mother rushed forward. She didn't hesitate, didn't speak—she simply threw her arms around him and broke into silent sobs. He felt her shoulders shake, felt the way she clung to him as if afraid he would disappear again. She was shedding an ocean's worth of tears, drowning in emotions too powerful to suppress.
His uncle followed, pulling him into a tight embrace, one that lingered longer than expected, as if trying to shield him from the inevitable storm. Damiyar patted his uncle's back in return, but his mind was elsewhere—his eyes desperately searched the room for someone.
She wasn't here.
His heart pounded. He had come back for her, to ask for forgiveness, to explain everything—but she was nowhere to be seen.
Once the initial greetings were over, the room fell into an uneasy silence. That's when he noticed it—every pair of eyes in the room was fixed on Inayat and Ezriel. The tension shifted, thickened. He could feel the weight of judgment, the silent accusations hanging in the air.
Clearing his throat, Damiyar straightened and walked toward his father. There was no hesitation in his steps, but everyone saw the difference in him. Damiyar had always been short-tempered, known for explosive reactions, yet today—he was composed. Too composed. It sent a ripple of shock through the room.
He stood before his father, his voice calm but laced with raw sincerity.
"Assalam-o-Alaikum."
His father's eyes flickered with something unreadable before he finally responded, his voice even but cold.
Damiyar stepped closer and, for the first time in years, embraced his father.
"I am sorry, Bade Abu. I am very sorry. But don't worry, I will make everything right. I promise."
His words carried conviction, desperation even. He needed to fix this, to mend what had been broken. But his father's response made him freeze.
His voice, firm and final, cut through the silence like a blade.
"It's too late now, Damiyar. Too late."
The words struck like a punch to the gut. Damiyar's breath hitched. His father's tone wasn't just disappointed—it was resigned.
And that scared him more than anything.
"She is not my wife."
Damiyar's voice was firm, his gaze scanning the room, ensuring everyone heard him. He needed them to understand—Inayat wasn't his wife. He didn't want them to misunderstand, to feel betrayed or disappointed over something that wasn't true.
But just as he thought he had cleared the air, his father's cold, cutting words made his blood run hot.
"Your statements no longer matter."
The words landed like a slap, burning through his composure. Damiyar clenched his jaw. He wouldn't let this go. "It matters to her." His voice was sharp, challenging.
But his father had already decided. "IT MATTERS TO NO ONE, NOW!" His voice thundered through the hall.
Ezriel, startled by the sudden outburst, burst into cries. Damiyar inhaled sharply and turned to his father, his voice lowered yet laced with frustration. "Aap kisi aur ke bache ka khyaal toh kar sakte hain na?"
His father smirked at that. A bitter, mocking smirk.
"Jise apne bache ki khabar nahi, vo dusron ke bache ki hifazat kar rahe hain?"
(Some people are not even aware of their child and are worried for others.)
The words sliced through Damiyar like a blade. His breath hitched, his fingers curled into fists, but he had no words left to defend himself. He just stared at his father, his mind struggling to grasp the weight of those words.
The air in the room was suffocating, but before the silence could settle, Aina stepped forward hesitantly. She knew it was wrong to interrupt, but she couldn't bear to see her brother like this. She didn't want him to leave again.
"Will you please leave everything behind and move on, Bade Abu?"
For a moment, it seemed like her words had settled over them like a plea for peace. But before her grandfather could respond, another voice did—one that carried more venom than she expected.
"Sab kuch pehle hi chhoot chuka hai. Aur move on toh tumhara bhai ek nahi, do do baar kar chuka hai."
(Everything is already left over, and about moving on, he has done that twice.)
Amaisha.
Her words were like a dagger to Damiyar's chest.
A deadly silence followed, thick with unspoken pain. His fists clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. And then, like a storm breaking loose, his fury erupted.
He turned sharply towards Amaisha, his eyes dark with rage. "How dare she?" His voice roared through the hall.
But before he could take a step closer, Taimoor moved in front of her, shielding her like a wall. Yet, Amaisha stood firm—not just on her feet, but on her words.
She refused to cower.
She refused to back down.
Her voice matched his intensity, her eyes burning with fury. "Exactly! How dare you?"
Her words sent a ripple of shock through the room.
"How dare you spoil our lives and leave? And now, when we are finally at peace, you're back—back to break her, back to hurt us!" Her voice cracked, but she didn't stop. She wouldn't. "Is bache ki toh badi fikr hai, apne bache ka pata hai? Zinda hai ya mar gya—"
(You are so worried for this child; what about the one you have?))
She stopped.
Shuddered in fear.
The moment those words left her lips, Damiyar's rage shattered all limits.
His furious roar silenced everything.
"SHUT UP!"
Even Ezriel, who had been crying moments ago, stopped. He looked at Damiyar with wide, fearful eyes, his small body frozen in place.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
Damiyar's chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, his hands trembling at his sides. His vision blurred with anger, his mind screaming, yet all he could do was turn on his heels and storm off.
He disappeared into his room, slamming the door shut behind him.
And just like that, the house fell back into silence—only this time, it was heavier, darker.
A silence that carried all the words left unsaid.
Damiyar slammed the door behind him, the echo reverberating down the hall like a gunshot. His breaths were ragged, fury pulsing in his veins like wildfire. He scanned the room—it was the same, yet different. The furniture had been moved. The curtains were no longer the ones he remembered. A shelf he built with his own hands had been taken down. Even the scent in the air felt unfamiliar. It wasn't his room anymore. It was just... a space.
He didn't ask questions. Didn't want answers. Right now, anger was the only language he spoke.
With a towel in his hand, he stormed into the bathroom, the cold marble floor grounding his shaking feet. He looked at himself in the mirror—the same face, but it felt foreign. A ghost wearing his skin.
"What did she mean...?" he muttered. The memory of Amaisha's voice echoed in his head, cruel and merciless:
"Is bache ki toh badi fikr hai, apne bache ka pata hai? Zinda hai ya mar gaya—"
His jaw tightened.
"I left my child... in the safest hands. With my honor, with my blood. And she says... that I don't care? That I don't know?!"
The fury surged up his throat like bile. With a primal scream, he smashed his fist against the bathroom wall.
"AAAAAHHHHHH!"
The sound ricocheted through the tiled walls. His knuckles split open, blood staining the white ceramic. But he didn't care. Pain was better than betrayal. Better than guilt.
Downstairs
The front door opened quietly, but the tension in the room snapped the moment Miral stepped inside. Her eyes landed on an unfamiliar woman sitting stiffly in the lounge. Inayat. The stranger who somehow belonged to Damiyar, yet no one truly knew how.
As Miral's gaze swept over the room, she noticed the atmosphere had soured. Mouths fell silent, words dying mid-breath.
Aina stepped toward a small boy—Azmeer—and leaned to kiss his cheeks. He didn't move. Didn't smile. He simply stood there, stiff and distant, like a puppet without strings.
Amaisha walked to him, scooped him gently into her arms, and began talking to him about her day. She acted natural, as if nothing had happened, but anyone could see the weight in her shoulders. She spoke not expecting replies—Azmeer hadn't spoken since morning.
Inayat's eyes locked onto the boy instantly.
Something tugged deep in her chest. Recognition. Not through logic—but something more primal.
His eyes.
They were his.
Those were Damiyar's eyes. That defiant glint, the same hair, the curve of the brow—it all screamed the truth. Her feet moved on their own.
She knelt down slowly, smiling gently. "Hello, little boy..." her voice trembled just slightly, "This is your phoopho... Inayat."
The moment stretched.
Everyone looked at her. Some in surprise. Some in confusion. And one—in shame.
Amaisha lowered her eyes. Her lips pressed together tightly. Her hands instinctively tightened around Azmeer as if she were afraid he would be taken away.
Inayat's voice, the kindness in her eyes—it didn't look like rivalry. It looked like kinship. Like... family.
But Amaisha misunderstood.
Her chest burned.
And across the room, Miral had already turned and left.
Upstairs
Miral pushed open the door to her room, her brow furrowed.
She hadn't been home in weeks. Everything still felt stale—like the air hadn't moved. She tossed her bag on the bed just as she heard something strange.
The tap in her bathroom.
Running.
She frowned, stepping cautiously toward it. Was someone... inside?
Before she could react, her phone buzzed on the nightstand. A call. She glanced down and reached for it—
SLAM!
"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING HERE?!"
The voice erupted behind her, loud and venomous.
She gasped.
Her phone slipped from her fingers and crashed to the floor.
And so did her heart.
She spun around.
Damiyar stood there, towel clenched in one hand, blood dripping from the other, his chest heaving with rage. His wet hair stuck to his forehead, but his eyes—his eyes were wild.
Miral's lips parted, but no sound came out.
She thought he would never return. But he did.
He wasn't supposed to be here.
Neither was she.
"You..." he spat. "Why are you in my room?"
And for the first time, Miral didn't have an answer. She had no explanation, she has destroyed four lifes for her selfishness. BUT NOW?
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VAZAIRI MANSION (SAME DAY)
The clock in the grand lounge of the Gulshad mansion ticked softly, almost nervously, as if it too sensed the disturbance in the air. The room, with its ornate chandeliers and sepia-toned family portraits, usually buzzed with laughter and conversation. But today, silence sat like a stranger in the corner — unwelcome and cold.
Esfandiyar entered quietly, the heavy wooden doors creaking behind him. His shoes left faint prints on the polished floor as he walked in, slow and deliberate, and sat down on the edge of the velvet couch. He didn't greet anyone. His expression was unreadable — somewhere between disbelief and obsession, between guilt and rage.
Gulshad, his grandfather, looked up from the chessboard he'd been pretending to play alone.
He squinted at Esfandiyar, sensing something foreign in his demeanor.
"Aap khush nazar aa rahe hain?" Gulshad asked, his tone calm but edged with curiosity. The kind of question that felt less like concern and more like a challenge.
(You seem happy.)
The words lingered.
Heads turned. Conversations hushed. The weight of his question pulled everyone's attention toward Esfandiyar, who didn't respond — didn't flinch. He stared into nothing.
"Bula lien apni behan ko or lgwa dien nazar." He answered and looked at his grandfather right into his eyes and then at his mother.
(Call your sister; she has the perfect evil eyes.)
"Esfi bhai?" his younger sister whispered.
"Bhai?" another called, unsettled.
Before anyone could speak again, the main door burst open.
His PA, stormed in, breathless and disheveled, his presence dragging in a whirlwind of tension. In his hand — a thin folder. No words. Just chaos in his eyes.
He crossed the room and handed the file to Esfandiyar without a word.
Esfandiyar opened it slowly, like peeling away skin. A series of photographs slid into his lap — some recent, some faded, all damning. He picked one. Held it in his hand for a long second.
Then turned it face-down on the coffee table with calculated care.
Silence, again.
"Dekhien." His voice was a whisper, but it sliced through the room.
(Have a look.)
His father stepped forward, eyes narrowed, and picked up the photograph.
One glance. Then another.
Then, a look at Esfandiyar.
"Kya, baba!" his father's voice cracked.
"Pota hai aapka!"
(What dad? He is your grandson.)
The room exploded.
Gasps. Scrambling footsteps. His siblings surged toward their father. Gulshad rose from his chair, steadied by his cane. His uncle pushed forward, snatching the photo.
In the picture was a boy — no older than three — with hauntingly familiar eyes. Gulshad eyes.
Meanwhile, Esfandiyar just sat as if this storm wasn't about him.
Only his grandmother didn't move. She stayed by the window, hand on her locket, eyes on Esfandiyar — not in shock, but in knowing.
"History will repeat," her gaze seemed to say.
And then, Esfandiyar finally spoke.
His voice was low, not shaking — but sharp, dangerous, as if the words had been etched into his soul.
His eyes darkened.
"Teen saal baad... woh wapas aayi hai. Aur yeh bacha..." he looked at the picture again, a cruel tenderness flashing across his face, "woh sabit kar raha hai ke sirf woh wapas nahi aayi... mera junoon bhi uske saath laut aaya hai."
He stood up slowly, buttoning his coat, ready to leave again. "Mien 3 saal ap logon ke kehne par us se door raha, per." He took a long pause.
"Ab sirf ek faisla lena hai..." he murmured, eyes flicking toward his grandfather. "Kya is ghar ko woh sach chahiye ya ek aur jhoot?"
And with that, he left behind a stunned silence, a shaken legacy, and a truth too heavy for the marble floor to hold.
Give me lots of Votes and Comments.
What do you think? Are we moving fast in the book? Or it's going fine? There are lots of things to open yet, so trying my best to move as fast as I can, I can mak it slow, but for me that's waste of time.