Chapter 1
Hello guys, I've been wanting to write this story for a long time and I've finally gotten the chance to share my thoughts and ideas with everyone. I know it's probably not even good, but if you like my story, then please make sure to leave a comment. If my story needs improvement, please let me know about that in the comments too. I'll be very happy to communicate with you guys. 🤧🌸💕
“We didn’t sign up for this, you know? I mean—sure, it’s family, but it’s not easy keeping her around.”
The woman’s voice was soft, almost sweet, the way people often sound when they’re trying to make cruelty sound like concern.
“She doesn’t talk much. Doesn’t walk. She just… sits there. It’s like raising silence.”
Her laugh was brief. Polite. She poured more soda into her glass.
“Sometimes I think… maybe God forgets some people halfway through making them.”
Fatima didn’t flinch.
Not because it didn’t hurt — but because pain, by now, had learned to sit quietly beside her.
She was a few feet away, tucked beneath the crooked arch of an overgrown plum tree where no one came unless they were looking for smoke alone. Her wheelchair rested neatly in the grass, half-lit by the golden string lights draped over the fence. The world was warm — busy with laughter, cousins, and music humming from a Bluetooth speaker — but none of it reached her.
She had her eyes on the grass. On the daisy that had forced its way between two bricks. On the moon that had quietly broken through the clouds. On anything that didn’t talk back.
There was something hauntingly still about her beauty.
Not loud. Not the kind that turned heads — but the kind that stayed with you.
Long brown hair, parted to the side, brushing the soft slope of her cheeks where the blush wasn’t powdered on, but natural — the kind born from quiet shame and bottled hope. Her skin held that pale softness of someone who hadn’t seen sunlight in days. Her lashes curled downward, eyes hazel and drowsy, like they’d stopped asking to be understood a long time ago.
She wasn’t dressed up like the other girls — no shimmer, no red lipstick. Just a plain dupatta folded neatly over her shoulder, and a sweater that looked slightly too large for her frame.
But even like this, even buried in silence and shadow, she looked like something forgotten by the world but not by God.
“Beta, get her a plate,” her aunty said suddenly, loud enough to sound caring.
“We’re not animals.”
Fatima didn’t turn.
She didn’t move.
Mehreen walked over, heels crunching against the gravel, a plate balanced in one hand, a glass of soda in the other. She didn’t smile, didn’t scowl either — just placed the plate on Fatima’s lap with a flat expression, then handed her the glass like it was any other errand.
“They made grilled corn too. In case you eat that,” she said, eyes flicking somewhere behind Fatima before walking off.
The plate sat quietly on her lap, steam curling from the food in soft spirals. The glass felt cold between her fingers — not refreshing, just cold. Fatima looked at both things for a long moment, chest rising slowly, the kind of breath you take when you're not crying but feel like you might if you don’t hold still.
She wasn’t allowed at the main table. She knew that.
The space was there, the chairs plenty — but that spot wasn’t hers, and never had been. She'd learned to read silence too well by now, had learned that sometimes the way people don’t look at you tells you more than words ever could.
They hadn’t told her she couldn’t join them.
They just made sure she never felt invited.
She stared down at her lap again. A lump formed somewhere between her throat and chest — too heavy to swallow, too familiar to fight. It stayed there quietly, aching.
Her gaze lifted eventually, drawn toward the group near the firepit where laughter was louder and the air warmer. A few of Rehan’s relatives were talking, laughing too much at too little. Her eyes stopped at him.
Rehan.
Leaning against the fence, holding a cigarette like it made him older than he was. His shirt sleeves rolled up carelessly. He was showing something on his phone to one of the boys — a picture, maybe a video — something that made the others hoot and laugh in a way that turned her stomach.
He hadn’t noticed her yet. But he would.
He always did.
Her grip on the glass tightened. Not because she was scared of him — not exactly. It was a deeper discomfort, the kind that lives in your bones. The kind that wakes you up at night and tells you what kind of man you’ll be handed to one day if no one stops it.
Rehan didn’t love her. He didn’t even know how to spell the word.
He liked possession. He liked silence. He liked being liked.
And Fatima — God help her — didn’t know how to fight back.
She just knew she didn’t want this.
And yet, somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew the adults would nod. They’d call it a good match.
He has a job. He’s stable. He’s family.
As if stability ever made a man safe.
She blinked. Her vision shimmered for a second — not from light, but from the tears that had gathered quietly in her lashes.
She didn’t wipe them. She didn’t move.
She just sat there, separate.
Not from the people — from the world.
And yet somehow, she still looked like the most alive thing in that garden.
From far away, she looked untouchable — the kind of girl who could live in oil paintings.
But no one had come close enough to see her cracking.
The meat on the skewer had cooled. She picked at it with the plastic fork quietly, tasting little, chewing even less. A few bites, maybe three. Then she set the fork aside.
Her hands moved toward the wheels, fingers curling around the metal, ready to push herself back toward the corner she always drifted to when no one was looking.
That was when she felt it.
A shift in the air behind her — too close, too intentional.
Her spine straightened instinctively.
Heartbeat—one.
Heartbeat—two.
She didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.
A second later, a breath brushed her ear.
“Hi, princess.”
Her entire body jolted at the voice. Her hand slipped from the wheel. Her eyes closed on instinct — just for a second, tight enough to stop the world from slipping in.
Rehan.
She hated that he always said things like that. Princess. As if he’d ever treated her like one.
She didn’t speak. She didn’t have the energy to pretend.
He chuckled behind her, low and amused, like he enjoyed the way she flinched.
“Relax. I’m just helping you.”
His hand grabbed the handles of the wheelchair without asking. She couldn’t see his face, but she knew the look he wore. That fake sweetness that made others think he was just being nice.
She hated that look.
The wheels turned under his grip, and she let them. There was no point in resisting — not here, not with all these eyes watching.
He pushed her up to the long wooden table where the drinks were stacked and paper plates were collecting dust in the wind. Her aunt looked up just in time, lips pulling into a wide, sugary smile.
“Oh, you brought her here, beta? Good, good.”
She turned to Rehan’s mother. “They look good together, don’t they?”
Fatima stared at the table. Not a word came from her mouth.
Rehan smiled — that show-off kind of smile, like he was proud of himself.
“She’s just shy around people,” he said smoothly. “But we get along. Don’t we, Fatima?”
She didn’t answer.
Her fingers twitched in her lap.
Rehan’s mother didn’t smile. She stared. Judging. Then nodded once.
“Shy is okay,” she said, “as long as she listens well.”
Fatima’s throat burned.
She looked like she hadn’t heard them, but every word echoed too loud in her ears. She wanted to disappear again, to push herself away like before—but Rehan leaned down behind her and whispered:
“Let’s go. There’s a quieter room inside.”
She turned slightly, eyes wide, head already shaking.
“No... it’s okay. I’m fine here—”
But his grip tightened on the handles.
“Don’t make a scene.”
The words weren’t a threat. But they were a warning.
She didn’t speak again. She didn’t have a choice. Her wheels moved again under him, gravel crunching. The sounds of laughter, smoke, distant music — they all faded as they entered the hallway of the farmhouse and turned toward the back.
A room opened. The door clicked shut behind her.
Stillness.
She turned her head quickly. “I want to go back,” she said, voice firm but soft, almost trembling. “Rehan—”
He stepped in front of her.
Kneeled.
He was eye-level now, too close. She pulled her hands away instinctively, holding them in her lap. Her pulse thundered.
Rehan smiled again. But it didn’t reach his eyes.
“You’re always running,” he said, brushing a finger against a lock of her hair. “But you’re not going anywhere, Fatima.”
She flinched so hard, her shoulder knocked against the armrest.
Her eyes stung instantly.
He touched her face — just the edge of her cheek. Not gently. Just... entitled.
She bit her lower lip hard, to keep anything from coming out.
He didn’t care.
To him, this was normal.
To her, it was everything wrong.
The room suddenly felt smaller than before. And for the first time in days, she realized her hands were shaking — not from cold.
From fear.
The silence in the room was loud.
She didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
Rehan stared at her with that unnerving stillness men wear when they believe they're right—when they believe they own something.
She wasn’t saying a word. Not looking at him. Just sitting small in her chair, shrinking.
“Stop acting like a child, Fatima.”
His voice cut through the room like a dull blade—more irritation than anger, but it cracked her open anyway.
He reached again—this time not soft. Not even pretending.
His fingers gripped her face so tightly her jaw hurt instantly. His thumb pressed against her cheekbone. Her neck stiffened.
She let out a soft gasp, a broken breath that turned into a whimper she couldn’t hold back.
The tears came fast. Messy. Unforgivable in her own eyes. But she couldn’t stop them.
She wasn’t strong enough.
And something in her chest cracked—because he didn’t flinch at the sight of her crying.
He didn’t pause.
“Look at you,” he scoffed. “Can’t even sit still without looking like a kicked animal.”
She squeezed her eyes shut.
He leaned in closer.
“Is this how you’ll behave after marriage?” he whispered, venom dipped in silk. “Scared? Hysterical? You’ll learn. You’ll be quiet. You’ll obey. That’s what good wives do.”
Something inside her recoiled so deeply it felt physical.
She didn’t know if it was his words or the way he said obey like it was some sacred word carved into her skin.
There was something so chilling about how calmly he said it. As if it wasn’t wrong. As if her resistance was the real crime.
"
You'll obey."
And in that moment, she thought—
What kind of love demands obedience from the broken?
What kind of marriage begins with bruises beneath the soul?
Her tears weren’t soft anymore. They poured down her cheeks like they had been waiting too long. The kind that made your throat burn. The kind you can’t hide, even when you turn your face away.
But Rehan didn’t care.
He was still talking. Still holding her.
Still pretending this was love.
Her fingers gripped the arms of the wheelchair.
Tightly.
He had just touched her again. His hand grazing her arm, then sliding toward her shoulder. The kind of touch that made her feel like she wasn’t a person, just... an object being claimed.
Fatima turned her face away—then quietly, like a leaf crushed underfoot—
“Please don’t touch me.”
It wasn’t loud.
It wasn’t even strong.
But it was enough.
The table beside him went crashing backward.
The glass of water spilled over. The plate clattered. A loud bang shook the air.
She flinched so hard her whole body jolted. Her eyes squeezed shut.
“You think you’ll say no to me?”
Rehan’s voice was a roar dressed in mockery.
He marched over. Fast. Furious.
Before she could react, his hand was in her hair, not entirely rough—but firm enough that her head tipped back and her breath caught in her throat.
Her eyes widened.
He bent, face inches from hers now, jaw clenched so tight it looked painful.
“Disobey me after marriage,” he hissed.
“Once. Just once. I swear to God, Fatima… you won’t like the man I become.”
Her lips trembled.
He stayed there. Breathing hard. Eyes burning.
“A wife listens. A wife doesn’t act like a wounded little princess. You think your tears make you holy?”
“You better fix that before the wedding.”
The room was so quiet that she could hear her own blood pounding in her ears.
And then suddenly—
“Rehan?”
Mehreen’s voice. Crisp. Loud. Too casual to not be calculated.
He stepped away from Fatima in an instant, adjusting his cuffs, clearing his throat like nothing had happened.
Mehreen walked in with a brow slightly raised, eyeing them both.
“Everyone’s heading back. You coming?”
Rehan gave a lazy nod and walked past them without looking back.
Fatima stayed frozen.
She didn’t move until she was sure he was gone. Then she slowly brought a shaky hand to her hair, fixing the part he had pulled.
Then to her face.
She wiped away the tears. Quickly. Carefully.
Willed her breath to go still again.
Her fingers smoothed out her dress. She pressed her lips together, trying to remember how to act like she hadn’t been crying in secret rooms since she was thirteen.
By the time she returned to the others, the sun had begun to dip. The shadows were long.
Rehan stood by his mother, speaking lightly. Too lightly.
She stood at the edge.
“We’ll see you again in a month or so,” Rehan’s mother smiled at Fatima’s aunt.
“We’ll talk then—officially.”
Fatima kept her eyes down.
She could feel the weight of her aunt’s glance—like a hook being reeled back in.
“Hmm?” the aunt said sweetly. Too sweet.
“Were you crying, Fatima?”
Her voice was gentle, but her hand clenched slightly at her side. Like she already knew the answer.
Fatima’s eyes flickered upward, then away.
“No,” she whispered.
Her voice was barely there.
Just enough to be heard.
No one questioned her. The cars had arrived. Everyone started to move.
The chatter resumed. The smiles returned.
But inside, as she was wheeled toward the car, her soul felt scraped raw.
And she knew—
Next time, there wouldn’t be a Mehreen at the door.
***
The car moved slowly beneath a sleepy sky, stars beginning to flicker like shy onlookers to a night that had already bruised her spirit.
In the back seat, Fatima sat in silence—hands folded neatly in her lap like apology. Her eyes were dry now, but only because they'd run out of ways to weep without being noticed. Her body was still, but inside, it felt like she was walking through the echoes of that locked room again—his hand on her face, her breath caught in her throat, her voice failing her when it was needed the most.
Her aunt's voice broke the quiet like a knife tossed into still water.
"Look what you've done," she hissed, lips barely moving but her tone sharp. "People must think I torture you. You were sitting there like a scene from some drama. Crying like that—are you proud of yourself?"
Fatima didn’t respond. Not because she didn’t have words. But because whatever words she did have—no one ever really waited to hear them.
She looked out the window, her reflection soft against the glass. There was something about night that always made her feel like she could vanish quietly. Like she could un-exist for a while and the world would carry on without noticing. She didn’t want to go home. She didn’t want to return to a place that felt more like storage than shelter.
Her chest ached—not from the slap, not from Rehan’s touch, but from the way everything was allowed to happen to her, as if she had no ownership of her own story.
>
You were the quiet one, remember? You didn’t resist enough. You never screamed. Maybe that’s why they think you don’t mind.
She closed her eyes. A lump formed in her throat, stubborn and aching, but she held it there. Let it sit like a stone.
Her uncle cleared his throat from the front seat, pretending not to notice anything. He always did. She sometimes wondered if pretending was a family trait, passed down like heirlooms: the skill to ignore what made them uncomfortable.
Outside, the wind moved softly through the trees, and Fatima wondered how silence could be so loud when it lived inside your bones.
The car turned into the narrow street, tires crunching over gravel softened by years of repetition. Home — or whatever word had been assigned to the space they lived in — stood ahead, lights off, curtains drawn, waiting in silence like a house that didn’t care if its people came back or not.
Fatima’s fingers tightened slightly around the hem of her dupatta as they parked. Her lap still felt heavy with what had happened.
The car doors opened one by one — her uncle stepping out first, adjusting the collar of his kurta, already half-absorbed in his phone screen. Her aunty followed, still annoyed, still tense, her gold bangles clinking in sharp rhythm with every movement.
"We still have things to pack," the woman muttered, more to herself than anyone. "Tomorrow’s shifting day and half the clothes aren’t even out of the cupboard. Don’t know what this girl even does all day."
Mehreen pulled her dupatta over her shoulder with a tired sigh, helping open the trunk as if to signal the night wasn’t over yet.
"We packed the kitchen already," she reminded. "Only the rooms are left. I’ll do mine in the morning. Her stuff’s barely anything anyway."
Fatima’s throat tightened. Her stuff. That’s what she was. Barely anything.
Her aunt turned, looking at her briefly with an unreadable expression — not quite pity, not quite scorn. Just something tired and sharp.
"We’ll leave early," she said flatly. "The driver won’t wait long. Don’t oversleep."
She didn’t wait for a response. No one expected one anyway.
Fatima was still in her seat, her wheels unmoving. Her body ached in strange, quiet places — her arms, her shoulders, but mostly somewhere inside the chest, somewhere emotional injuries nested and waited to rot.
Mehreen came back after shutting the gate, then leaned down beside her, not looking her in the eyes.
“You gonna sleep in your clothes again?” she asked casually, a half-scoff in her voice.
Fatima blinked once. No answer.
“I’ll bring your chair inside,” Mehreen added, then quickly added — “Don’t drop anything. We’ll get blamed again.”
She wheeled her forward with one hand, her phone in the other. And for a strange moment, it felt like Fatima wasn’t even there — like her body had become part of the furniture being moved into another house tomorrow. One more object among beds and dishes and cartons. Silent, carried, overlooked.
The house was quieter than usual that night — not peaceful, but hollow. The kind of quiet that settled in after a storm, when no one was ready to acknowledge the wreckage.
Fatima’s room, small and shadowed, greeted her like an old friend who didn’t ask questions. She pushed the door closed with one hand on the wheel and exhaled softly, alone again. She undid her dupatta and laid it carefully on the bed — not from vanity, but from habit. It was one of the few things she still did gently, as if small rituals could anchor a body that constantly felt adrift.
She changed out of her clothes slowly, neatly, not because she had energy but because she had nothing else. Once her old kurta was folded and placed aside, she glanced at the edge of her bed, hesitated... and then leaned down slightly, reaching beneath it.
Her fingers touched the metal tin first — old, dented, almost rusty on one side — and then the thin stack of painted sheets beside it, bound with string. She pulled them out carefully, her hand trembling slightly with the effort, but more with the memory.
They weren’t professional. Some were just strokes of color, shadows against imaginary skies. But they were hers — every shade, every uneven line, every silent emotion spilled onto paper with no one to see.
She bit her lip hard. Her eyes burned.
What if the new house didn’t have space beneath the bed?
She sat still for a moment, fingers brushing the top sheet — a blurred image of a woman sitting by a window, faceless, framed in indigo and soft yellow light. A memory she’d never lived, but always imagined.
The tin clicked open. Inside were her small paint tubes — some nearly empty, some stiff from months of not being used. A single brush, frayed at the ends, sat tucked between two dried palettes. She touched them all like someone touching relics of a person they once were.
After a while, she opened the small box where her folded clothes were kept and gently laid the paintings in between the cotton layers. The tin she slid along the side, wrapping it in an old scarf to keep it from rattling.
When she looked around the room again, it already felt less like hers. Just a bed, a chair, an empty drawer.
She started folding the rest of her clothes. Quietly. Slowly. As if packing them too fast would somehow make leaving more real.
She folded clothes like she didn’t know what else to do with her hands.
One sleeve, then the other. Corners tucked in, seams lined up — the kind of precision that didn’t matter but gave her something to control. A pair of old shalwars, an unused dupatta with sequins that had started to fall off years ago. All things that didn’t quite belong anywhere, much like their owner.
The light in her room flickered once, then steadied. She didn’t look up.
It wasn’t grief she felt — grief had passed through long ago and made its exit without saying goodbye. This was something else. A sort of muted confusion. The kind that stayed behind after a life quietly rearranged itself without asking permission.
Everything felt a little too sharp lately — people, voices, evenings, the sound of her own thoughts. Even silence had a texture now. It grated against her like sandpaper.
She stared at a shirt for a second too long, then folded it twice and shoved it between two sweaters she’d probably never wear again. Half her clothes didn’t fit anymore — not physically, just contextually. They didn’t suit who she was becoming, though she wasn’t entirely sure who that was either.
Somewhere between folding the last piece and closing the box, she stopped. Sat still. Hands resting quietly on her lap, as if she were waiting for someone to come in and say something meaningful. No one did.
She looked around the room again.
It had never been particularly beautiful, nor had it ever pretended to be. A cracked mirror, a chipped corner on the cupboard, curtains that didn’t quite match the walls. The only thing that had belonged to her was under the bed. And now even that had been packed away.
She pressed her palm lightly to the lid of the box. Not in a sentimental way. Just… absentmindedly. Like someone touching a railing while going down stairs.
Somewhere downstairs, her aunty was yelling again. About where the tape went, or who packed the plates wrong. The same soundtrack as always.
Fatima didn’t move. She sat there, blinking slowly at nothing in particular, like her thoughts had wandered off without her and left her sitting in the quiet, waiting for them to return.
Downstairs, her aunty’s voice rose over the clatter of tape being yanked from its roll.
“Tell her to stop sitting like some begum upstairs. We still have a full rack of dishes and she can at least wrap the cutlery. I don’t care if she’s in a wheelchair, she’s not royalty.”
Then quieter, though not enough:
“All she does is eat and sit and cry. She thinks we owe her the air she breathes.”
The words reached Fatima’s room easily. The walls in this house had always been thin. Even silence found a way in.
She didn’t flinch. She’d heard worse. She’d heard it in sharper tones, with crueler words. Usually, she’d let them settle somewhere near the corner of her ribs, where they could sting without bleeding.
But tonight something felt… off. Maybe it was the room, half-packed and unfamiliar. Maybe it was the smell of old paint and cardboard, or the way the moonlight pooled on the floor like spilled milk.
Whatever it was, she couldn’t quite hold herself together.
The first sob came quietly — not the cinematic kind, but the kind that snuck out like a breath gone wrong. Then another. Then too many.
Her shoulders started to shake. She leaned forward in her chair, hands clutching the edge of the box as if that might anchor her. It didn’t.
The tears came fast, blurring her vision until her own room felt like someone else’s. She didn’t try to stop. What was the point?
No one knocked. No one came. No one said her name softly and asked what was wrong.
So she cried.
Like a faucet left open, like she was leaking everything she’d kept folded up inside her for too long. She cried in the kind of way that made her chest hurt, the kind that made breathing feel like work.
She cried because her hands weren’t enough. Because her voice wasn’t loud enough. Because she knew how to paint a forest, but not how to ask someone to stay.
And when it was over — or at least when the sobs had quieted down to hiccups and damp sleeves — she leaned back in her chair, eyes swollen, face flushed, completely alone.
There was no soft knock at the door. No warm arms. No kindness waiting just outside the room.
Just her.
And a half-sealed box full of clothes and drawings that no one would understand.
***
The dining room was already busy with the kind of noise that didn't come from chaos, but from routine. Plates were passed, spoons clinked against porcelain, and someone — probably Abbas — was already laughing at something that wasn’t all that funny.
Their mother sat at the head, in her usual lavender scarf and that same weary smile she wore every morning, as though she’d already accepted the day before it had even begun. Across from her, Zoya was pouring chai into a too-small cup, spilling a little over the side and pretending not to notice.
“I swear, if you’d just angle your hand—” Abbas began, reaching over.
“I did angle it,” Zoya replied flatly, wiping the edge with the sleeve of her kurti. “Maybe the cup's too narrow. Or maybe gravity hates me. Either one.”
Their father, seated beside Abbas, lowered the newspaper. “We’re not redesigning physics over breakfast.”
“Shame,” she said. “We might’ve solved something for humanity.”
“Humanity’s not on our payroll, Zoya.”
The maid passed by with a refilled teapot, pausing slightly. “Should I call him?”
Their mother gave a soft nod, her fingers stirring sugar into her tea even though she’d long stopped liking it sweet.
The maid left, her footsteps swallowed by the wide, carpeted corridor.
There was a certain expectation in the air now — not tension, not anticipation — just... a subtle awareness that the table wasn’t quite complete.
A few minutes passed. Someone buttered toast. Zoya mumbled something about needing more sleep and was promptly ignored.
Then: footsteps.
Measured. Not rushed, not hesitant. Just deliberate — the kind of pace that came from someone who had never once needed to prove he was important.
Mustafa Azeem Shah entered like time didn’t touch him.
His suit was black, sharply cut, the jacket sitting smooth across his shoulders like it had always belonged there. His hair was neatly in place, not a strand out of line, but it wasn’t effort — just habit. His brown eyes, quieter than they should’ve been, swept the room once without pausing, like he was mentally cataloguing everyone’s presence.
He didn’t smile.
He didn’t frown either.
He simply walked in, adjusted the cuff of his shirt, and pulled out his chair like the world had been waiting for him to sit.
“Morning,” he said, voice calm, neither warm nor cold — just... there.
Zoya looked up from her toast. “Well, look who remembered we eat meals here.”
“I had emails,” he said, reaching for a cup. “And also, you’re loud.”
She stuck her tongue out at him. “And you’re late.”
Their mother leaned in slightly, pouring him tea before he could do it himself. “How did the meeting go yesterday?”
He nodded once. “It went.”
That was as much as they’d get. It was his way — answer just enough to count as an answer.
“Good,” their father finally said, folding the newspaper again. “Both of you — you and Abbas — are doing well. I’ve been thinking.”
Zoya’s eyes flicked to Abbas immediately. Abbas, in return, lifted his brow like he wasn’t entirely surprised.
“About?” Abbas asked, tearing a piece of paratha.
“The company,” their father said. “Sooner or later, we’ll need to decide who’s ready to take full charge. Permanently.”
Mustafa didn’t look up. He stirred his tea slowly, watching the steam rise like it held better conversation.
Abbas grinned, half-joking, half-serious. “Well, if you’re handing out crowns, I’d like mine with diamonds.”
Zoya made a choking sound behind her cup. “You’d lose it in two days and blame the driver.”
“I’d only blame him if he actually lost it,” Abbas retorted.
Their father gave a half-smile — one of approval, maybe, or maybe just amusement. “We’ll see.”
Mustafa finally looked up then, and for a second, his gaze met his father’s. Still, he said nothing. He didn’t need to. There was something about him — always had been — that made his silence feel more complete than other people’s full speeches.
Zoya broke it, like always. “You know,” she said, “one of you is going to have to start speaking in full sentences soon. Just for the sake of drama.”
Mustafa sipped his tea. “Not today.”
Their mother reached for the basket of toast, then paused as though remembering something too minor to be important but too persistent to ignore.
“Oh — the house across from us,” she said, spreading butter that refused to cooperate. “The one being renovated for the past six months? The workers finally packed up yesterday. Someone’s moving in today or tomorrow, I think.”
Zoya looked up sharply. “The white house? The one with the overgrown roses?”
“Yes,” her mother replied. “They trimmed the garden last week. I saw the gardener lugging out three sacks of dead branches.”
“Hmm.” Zoya chewed slowly, her brain already halfway into the mystery. “You know,” she said, eyes narrowing, “from Mustafa’s balcony you can see right into their garden.”
Abbas snorted. “Creeping on the neighborhood now, Zoya?”
“I wasn’t creeping,” she said, unapologetically. “I just happened to walk into his room to borrow that portable charger. And I noticed.”
“Sounds like creeping.”
“Sounds like you’re insecure I have better observation skills.”
“I’m secure in knowing no one wants to be observed by you, Sherlock.”
Zoya rolled her eyes and turned back to their mother. “Did you talk to the gatekeeper? Do we know who’s coming?”
“No idea,” their mother replied, shrugging. “Just that they asked for extra help unloading. The movers were told there’s a wheelchair, so someone may be... unwell, perhaps.”
Mustafa didn’t say anything. He sliced a small piece of omelette with a deliberate hand, as if this bit of egg had personally offended him. He hadn’t looked up once during this entire conversation. But his presence was never passive. It sat there at the table — intact, undisturbed — like a stone in the middle of a still pond.
Zoya tilted her head, thinking. “You know... there’s this narrow path behind the hedges. I think it’s from the side of our garden. It’s like a little shortcut to theirs.”
Abbas raised an eyebrow. “You’ve mapped the whole neighborhood now?”
“I go on walks,” she said with mock dignity.
“Uninvited.”
“Mustafa should go introduce himself,” she added suddenly, grinning as she turned toward him. “A formal welcome from the balcony committee.”
Mustafa glanced up just once. His eyes were unreadable, but there was the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth — not a smile, not even sarcasm. Just... something.
He returned to his plate without responding.
“Anyway,” Abbas said, brushing crumbs off his shirt, “I think they should bring mithai. We’ve been here longer.”
“They’re new,” their mother said gently.
“Exactly. We deserve sweets.”
Zoya leaned on her elbow. “Speaking of sweets... your wedding’s next month. That’s a whole lot of gulab jamun, bhaijaan.”
Abbas sighed, dramatic and martyred. “One more reminder, and I’ll start charging a fee.”
“You’re the one who brought it up.”
“No, you did.”
“I did it with love.”
“Your love costs me my peace.”
Their mother sighed — the long-suffering kind that mothers had perfected across generations. “If you two are finished measuring your IQs with butter knives, maybe we can talk about something useful.”
“Oh, like your son getting married and leaving your house forever?” Zoya teased.
Her mother’s eyes softened, but she only said, “I just hope you all show up on time for the nikkah.”
Mustafa lifted his cup to his lips. “I’ll be there,” he murmured.
It wasn’t a promise. Just a fact.
Zoya smirked. “In a suit again?”
“No,” he said. “I thought I’d try a dinosaur costume this time.”
That earned an unexpected laugh from Abbas, and even their mother cracked a smile.
The maid returned with another pot of chai. The morning was moving — slowly, rhythmically — like it always did in this house. Conversation curled around the scent of butter and cardamom, full of half-jokes and quiet glances, the kind of comfort that didn’t need explaining.
Mustafa finished the last sip of tea, set his cup down, and finally stood.
“I have a call,” he said to no one in particular.
And just like that — without drama or pause — he left.
He ended the call, slipped the phone into the inner pocket of his coat, and adjusted the cuffs of his shirt like he always did — first the left, then the right, with one sharp tug and no second glance.
The hallway outside his room was quiet. The house always breathed a little softer when everyone was either leaving or left.
He stepped into his room.
It was clean. Intentionally so. Nothing unnecessary, nothing sentimental — except for the guitar leaned carefully against the bookshelf and the sketchbook that always seemed to find its way onto the desk no matter where he left it.
He was just about to reach for his watch when the door creaked open behind him.
“Ten minutes,” Zoya announced like a weather report, slipping inside without asking.
He didn’t turn. “Five.”
“You owe me a song.”
“I don’t sing.”
“I mean, guitar. Fine.” She plopped onto the edge of his bed, cradling a mug of coffee that was far too full to be safe in her hands. “Play that one I like. The one that sounds like heartbreak in Paris.”
“That could be literally any song.”
She grinned. “Exactly.”
Mustafa sighed — but it was the kind that only pretended to be annoyed.
He walked over, picked up the guitar without drama, and sat on the upholstered chair by the window. The light through the curtain fell gently across his face, making the sharp angles of his jawline look somehow softer. He tuned the strings without looking down — his fingers already knew what to do — and began to play.
He didn’t speak while he played. Didn’t glance up. But the melody settled into the room like it belonged there. Something slow, familiar, not quite sad, but not entirely whole either — the kind of music that let you think of everything and nothing at once.
Zoya closed her eyes for a moment. She always said he played like the world was ending but he had already accepted it.
He didn’t react.
When the last note faded, she opened her eyes again and glanced over his shoulder.
“Oh,” she said, eyes landing on the desk. “That’s new.”
He followed her gaze.
A sketch, rough around the edges but strangely detailed. A street somewhere. Lamps, shadows, one bird mid-flight.
“You drew that last night?” she asked, standing.
He shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.”
She leaned closer. “It’s beautiful,” she said with that effortless, younger-sister pride that didn’t ask for permission to exist.
He didn’t say thank you. He never did.
Downstairs, the car horn gave a polite but pointed beep.
Mustafa stood, set the guitar gently against the wall, and grabbed his watch off the desk. He checked the time — precise as always.
Zoya was still holding her mug like it was the only thing grounding her to the morning.
As he walked past, he flicked her forehead with two fingers — just enough to make her glare.
“Rude,” she muttered.
He was already halfway out the door. “You’re welcome.”
***
The gate was already open when the car rolled down the driveway — one of the guards stood to the side with a half-bow, the other raised a hand in lazy salute. The early sun spilled across the windshield in slow, syrup-thick gold, and the interior of the black SUV briefly lit up with the kind of light that made suits look warmer and coffee cups look colder.
Inside, the conversation was muted but steady.
“I’m still not sure about that merger,” Abbas said, tapping twice on the leather dashboard like the rhythm helped him think. “Their last quarter wasn’t impressive, and you know how Ahmed takes risks without a net.”
Their father didn’t look away from the road. “We’re not buying their quarter. We’re buying their trajectory.”
“He’s reckless,” Abbas said again, like repetition made the point sharper.
Mustafa leaned back, one arm propped on the window frame, fingers grazing his jaw as he listened. His head turned slightly toward the window, not quite disengaged — just thinking on a different frequency. He didn’t speak much during these drives. His words came when they were necessary. Not before.
They were just about to pull out when his father tapped the brake.
“They’re here.”
Abbas looked up. “Who?”
“The new neighbors.”
Sure enough, across the quiet street, the front of the white-walled house had come alive. A small moving truck was parked with its rear open, and two workers were struggling with a heavy-looking dresser. The front door was ajar. The hedges had been freshly trimmed, but a few thorns still poked out like they refused to be tamed.
A man and a woman — older, likely in their fifties — stood supervising from the porch. A younger girl, mid-twenties maybe, handed something to one of the workers. There was another girl in a wheelchair, half-hidden behind a column of stacked boxes.
The father opened the car door, smoothing the crease in his kameez as he stepped out.
“Come,” he said.
Mustafa and Abbas followed, adjusting the collars of their shirts automatically. The sun met them halfway — not blinding, just confident. It cast a soft gleam on Mustafa’s face, brushed a quiet sheen over his jawline, and caught in his lashes. A lone strand of his hair — darker today — fell over his forehead as the wind shifted slightly.
They crossed the street in unhurried steps. Formal, respectful. Abbas carried his ease with him like a wristwatch; Mustafa carried silence like armor.
The older man on the porch noticed first. He stepped down with polite urgency.
“Assalamu Alaikum,” he said, extending both hands.
“Wa Alaikum Assalam,” Mustafa’s father greeted, smiling warmly. “Finally, we meet. Welcome to the neighborhood.”
“Thank you, thank you,” the uncle replied, his voice practiced in politeness. “It’s a relief to be done with the construction.”
The aunty joined with a nod and a distant smile that barely reached her eyes. Mehreen greeted them with the kind of restrained charm that implied she’d been warned to behave.
Mustafa stood quietly, a single step behind his father. He offered a small nod of greeting — the polite kind men exchanged when there wasn’t much to say but something needed to be said anyway.
Abbas leaned forward and said something about the truck looking too full, offering to help. The uncle laughed — something about how “young backs are blessings” — and Abbas didn’t wait for further permission. He moved toward the truck and grabbed one of the smaller suitcases, easily swinging it over his shoulder.
Mustafa, still silent, followed.
He didn’t look around. Didn’t scan the house. But then, just at the corner of the truck, he noticed a girl — frail-looking, hair half-tied, a pale dupatta wrapped unevenly over one shoulder. She was trying to lift a carton that looked heavier than she was. Her fingers were delicate and unsure around the edges, her sleeves slipping as she tilted her wrists to brace the weight.
Mustafa slowed slightly.
His back remained straight, his presence undisturbed — but his eyes narrowed, just faintly. It wasn’t a squint, nor suspicion — just a quiet habit. The kind born of years spent observing before acting. His gaze locked on the struggle, a tick slower than anyone else's would have been.
She didn’t see him until he was standing beside her.
He didn’t say a word. Just placed a hand lightly on the box.
She flinched — visibly. Like contact itself startled her.
He paused.
Then slowly, gently, took the carton from her and without meeting her eyes, turned to walk toward the open doorway. She didn’t speak. Neither did he.
Inside, he placed the box near the wall where the others had started stacking items. The air smelled like wet paint and mothballs. The floor tiles were cool under his polished shoes. He adjusted the position of the box slightly — almost out of habit — then turned back toward the door.
Just as he stepped back onto the porch, something near the wheel of the chair caught his eye. A small pouch — maybe paints, maybe stationery. He bent, picked it up, and glanced toward her.
She wasn’t looking.
He didn’t call out to return it. Just held it in his hand for a second, considered giving it now, and instead slid it into the side pocket of the same box he had just carried in.
Let her find it when she’s unpacking.
They rejoined the others just as Abbas returned to the porch, his sleeves pushed up now. “There’s a whole library in there,” he said. “Books on books.”
The aunty smiled, tight and careful. “We’re collectors.”
His father glanced toward Fatima’s uncle. “You must all come by. Once you’re settled, we’d love to welcome you properly. My wife insists.”
“Of course,” the man replied. “You’re very kind.”
Mustafa’s father patted his shoulder lightly and turned toward the car.
Mustafa said nothing. Not because he was cold — he just never used a sentence when a gesture sufficed.
As they walked back across the street, Abbas cracked his neck slightly.
“Nice people,” he said, wiping his hands on a tissue. “That girl in the wheelchair — she seems quiet.”
Mustafa didn’t respond. He glanced down at the crease on his sleeve where the carton had pressed against him and brushed it smooth again.
The SUV door clicked open.
The morning resumed.
___
The car door shut with a soft thud behind them, and the echo of departing wheels hummed faintly down the lane. Fatima had not been invited into the conversation, nor had she lingered in it — just a silent, unobtrusive fixture by the gate, her fingers curled loosely in her lap, her gaze tilted downward.
"Why were you standing there like that?" her aunty’s voice broke in, cutting sharp through the morning air. "Go inside. You love making a scene, don’t you?"
Fatima flinched — not at the words, but at the tone. She always flinched at the tone.
With a soft, automatic nod, she wrapped her fingers around the large wheels of her chair and turned, her wrists working with quiet strength. The metal creaked faintly beneath her palms, the rubber brushing gravel as she pushed herself forward through the newly painted entrance.
The air inside the house was laced with that heavy mixture of varnish, dust, and distant perfume — furniture still wrapped, curtains still crumpled from boxes. It should’ve been disorienting.
But what she saw next paused everything in her chest.
A garden.
It wasn’t extravagant. A medium square of earth tucked behind a set of glass doors, partially enclosed by tall walls on both sides — but the sunlight flooded in like it belonged there. Wild bougainvillea climbed halfway up a trellis, pink and white, like the garden hadn’t yet decided which season to settle into. The flowerbeds weren’t bloomed in perfection — uneven, scattered — but they were real. Not artificial. The kind of colors that looked like they didn’t care whether anyone noticed them.
Something stirred in her — not joy. Something quieter.
Hope, maybe. The soft kind.
She stared at it for longer than she should’ve. Her aunty was mumbling somewhere behind her about the movers and the kitchen, her cousin was asking where to keep the spare keys. She didn’t move. Just looked.
In her head, it clicked — not loudly, not dramatically, but with the gentleness of a puzzle piece fitting home.
She was going to stay here. This garden. This exact patch of earth. As soon as the boxes were cleared and her place was ignored again, she would come here and just exist. Quietly. Unnoticed. She didn’t want to own the garden. She just wanted to be near it.
And she would.
The afternoon passed in blur. Lifting, folding, assigning rooms. She was rarely consulted — which was its own strange relief. She had grown used to the silence, to people moving around her like she was part of the furniture, like her wheels were legs of a table, occupying space but not relevance.
She wheeled herself into the living room as Mehreen was showing a mover where to place the settees. Her arms ached slightly from the effort, and her dress was caught in the side wheels. But none of it mattered.
She kept thinking of the garden.
***
To be continued...
