Chapter
Author’s POV
The rain had been falling since early morning.
It wasn't heavy enough to make the roads flood, nor gentle enough to be ignored. It simply stayed—soft, steady, tapping against the windows of the old house as if someone outside was quietly asking to be let in.
Inside, the house was already awake.
The sound of utensils came from the kitchen. Someone was talking on the phone in the next room. A television played in the background, loud enough to fill the silence but not loud enough to hide it.
And upstairs, behind a half-closed door, a girl sat alone on the edge of her bed.
Her name was Mehmal Yousuf.
She had been staring at the same screen for almost twenty minutes.
The result website was open.
The page hadn't changed.
Neither had her heartbeat.
On the small study table beside her lay a pile of books, handwritten notes, a half-empty cup of tea and a photograph.
A photograph she had looked at so many times that she no longer needed to pick it up to remember what was in it.
Her parents.
They had been smiling in that picture.
Mehmal looked away.
It had been a year.
Twelve months since the accident that had taken away the two people she had always believed would be there, no matter what happened.
Sometimes, even now, she would wake up in the morning and forget.
For a few seconds, everything would feel normal.
Then reality would return.
And she would remember that there was no mother waiting in the kitchen.
No father asking whether she had eaten.
No familiar voice telling her not to study too late at night.
Just silence.
And her aunt's house.
Mehmal took a slow breath and looked back at the laptop.
"Please," she whispered.
She wasn't sure whether she was talking to the result page or to something greater than herself.
She clicked Refresh.
The page loaded.
Her fingers tightened around the edge of the table.
Then the numbers appeared.
For a moment, Mehmal didn't understand what she was seeing.
She blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Her lips parted slightly.
She read the marks again.
And again.
Her eyes slowly filled with tears.
Not because she had failed.
Because she hadn't.
She had done it.
After months of studying while carrying a grief she rarely spoke about, after nights when the only thing keeping her awake was the fear of losing the future along with the past—
she had made it.
A small smile appeared on her face.
"Papa..."
The word left her lips before she could stop it.
She covered her mouth.
And cried.
Quietly.
The way she had learned to cry over the past year.
---
I don't know how long I sat there.
Maybe five minutes.
Maybe fifteen.
I just kept looking at my result.
My hands were shaking.
I had imagined this moment so many times.
In every version of that imagination, Mama was standing beside me.
Papa would have taken the laptop from my hands and checked the result himself, even though I would have told him three times that I had already checked it.
Mama would have cried before I did.
She always cried easily.
I smiled through my tears.
"You would have been so happy, Mama."
My room suddenly felt too quiet.
I picked up the photograph from the table and held it against my chest.
For one stupid second, I wished I could go downstairs and tell them.
Then I remembered.
I had no one to tell.
At least, not them.
I wiped my cheeks quickly.
Today wasn't the day to cry.
Today was the day I was supposed to be happy.
I had scored well enough to dream about the one thing I had wanted for years.
Medicine.
An MBBS seat.
A life I had planned before life itself decided to make other plans for me.
I looked at the result again.
A scholarship notification was waiting below it.
I hadn't opened it yet.
My heart began racing all over again.
Maybe—
just maybe—
my dream wasn't as far away as I had thought.
I stood up and looked at myself in the mirror.
My eyes were red.
My hair was messy.
I laughed softly.
"Great. Future doctor."
I wiped my eyes again.
"First learn to stop crying."
A knock came at the door.
I immediately straightened.
"Mehmal?"
It was Fufa's voice.
"Ji, Fufa."
"Neeche aao. Nashta thanda ho raha hai."
"I'll come."
There was a pause.
Then her voice came again.
"Result aa gaya?"
I looked at the laptop.
"Ji."
"Kitne marks aaye?"
I hesitated.
Then smiled.
"Achhe aaye hain."
Another pause.
"Achhe kitne?"
I opened the door.
"Fufa... bahut achhe."
She looked at me.
For a second, something unreadable crossed her face.
Then she smiled.
"Achha? Chalo, neeche aao. Baat karte hain."
I nodded.
I didn't notice the way her eyes moved toward the laptop behind me.
I didn't notice the sudden change in her expression.
And I certainly didn't know that my result had just changed more than one person's plans.
For me, that morning was about a dream.
For someone else, it was the beginning of a completely different plan.
And somewhere, in a house only a few streets away, a man who didn't even know my name was living an ordinary morning.
For now.
