The morning sunlight filtered gently through the lace curtains, casting soft patterns on the floor of the quiet lounge. Baba and Grandpa sat side by side on the sofa, their tea cups in hand, sharing a peaceful silence.
The air held the scent of cardamom and old books. Just then, Hannah stepped in, her black chiffon khimar draped gracefully around her head and shoulders, a light handbag resting at her side. She was dressed to go out, but paused when she saw them sitting together. A soft smile touched her lips.
"Peace unto both of you," she said, her voice light.
"Peace unto you, my Hannah," Baba replied warmly, lifting his cup slightly as if to greet her.
Grandpa tilted his head and gave her a curious look. "Hmm, where are you going, all dressed up?"
"Just nearby," she said, taking a few steps into the room. "There's a stationery shop down the street. I need a few things."
She hesitated a moment, then added, "Why don't you come too?"
Grandpa laughed gently, placing his cup down. "I was getting bored sitting at home anyway. It'll be good to step outside, freshen the mind."
Hannah set her bag on the nearby chair and joined them on the sofa. The tea was still warm, and she poured herself some, sitting comfortably between them. There was a rare comfort in that moment, three generations sharing quiet company.
Baba stared into his cup thoughtfully, then turned to Grandpa. "Baba Jan, you know what I've been thinking?"
Grandpa raised his eyebrows. "Hmm?"
"I think you and I should start learning painting from Hannah."
Grandpa chuckled. "Oh really?"
"I mean it," Baba said with a grin. "Yesterday I went to her art room. The bulb had fused, so I went to change it. And what I saw…" He paused, shaking his head slowly. "Honestly, I was amazed. The paintings... they were something else. So full of feeling, so deep."
Grandpa smiled, pride lighting up his tired eyes. "You're right. Hannah is very talented. In fact, she paints even better than Fiza did at her age."
"Grandpa," Hannah said, her smile fading a little, "please don't say that. Don't compare two artists. There's a world of difference in our work."
Baba looked at her gently. "And that's the beauty of it."
Hannah blinked. "What do you mean?"
"Your mother's paintings," Baba said slowly, "always carried a message—something timely, something the world needed to hear. That's why people loved them. But your paintings… they're different."
He leaned forward slightly, his tone more thoughtful now. "They make people stop. Think. It's like they ask questions. Like a riddle—or maybe a whisper to the soul. They don't give answers, they search for them."
He looked at her, eyes soft. "Your paintings stay in the heart, Hannah. And that's rare. That's precious."
A quiet settled over the room. Hannah looked down, fingers wrapped gently around her teacup. No one had ever spoken about her work like that before. Not with such depth. Not with such truth.
And just like that, something inside her shifted—quietly, deeply.
**************************************************
The office was quiet, bathed in the golden light of the late afternoon sun. The air smelled faintly of polished wood and fresh paper. Saladin Mehmet sat behind his heavy oak desk, fingers steepled together, his brows drawn in worry. His eyes, though proud and sharp, carried the weight of something unsettled.
"I told him not to go…" he muttered, almost to himself. "But still… he left for Morocco."
The door creaked open gently. Rihanna stepped in, holding a file in one hand, her expression soft yet composed. Her heels made the lightest sound against the floor as she walked in.
She glanced at her husband and waved her free hand. "Let it go, Saladin. That's an old story now," she said calmly. "Did you review the files for the meeting?"
Saladin nodded slowly, then leaned back in his chair. His eyes still held concern. "I did. But Rihanna…" he paused, then sat up straighter, the frustration slipping into his voice, "I asked him not to leave. We're already struggling to manage things here. And now he wants to expand overseas? What's the point of growing a business we can't even fully handle right now?"
Rihanna smiled gently and placed the file on the table. She didn't raise her voice—she never needed to. Her calmness was her strength.
"Saladin, please," she said, sitting across from him, "have a little faith. If our son is thinking about expanding, it's a good sign. That means we've raised him to think big, to be bold. That's our success too."
He looked at her, quiet for a moment, watching the ease in her face. He let out a long breath, softer this time.
"My only concern," he said more quietly now, "is that the new board of directors… I want one of our sons to be part of it. Someone who carries our name."
Rihanna nodded, her voice growing warmer. "Haris has been working so hard lately. And Haroon—he's such a smart boy. There's no one in Karachi more capable than our children."
Saladin chuckled—a real, relaxed laugh this time. The creases on his forehead smoothed as he leaned back in his chair. "You always know how to ease my worries," he said, a smile spreading across his face. "Your words… they bring me peace."
Rihanna reached out and touched his hand gently. "That's what I'm here for."
And just like that, the weight in the room lifted. The silence that followed wasn't heavy anymore—it was peaceful.
The soft hum of the air conditioner filled the office, blending with the fading sounds of the outside world. Saladin was just beginning to relax, his smile lingering from his conversation with Rihanna.
And then, the door opened.
"Peace unto you, Maa... Baba," came a calm, confident voice from the doorway.
Rihanna turned first, her face instantly lighting up. "Peace unto you, my life," she said warmly.
Saladin looked up with quiet surprise. Haris stood there, tall and composed, dressed neatly in a crisp shirt and dark trousers. His hair was perfectly combed, and there was a glow of sharp intelligence in his eyes—he looked every bit the young man they'd raised with so much love.
Haris stepped forward and respectfully bent down, touching his parents' hands to kiss them.
"You have a long life ahead of you, my son," Rihanna smiled, placing a hand lovingly on his head. "We were just talking about you!"
Haris raised his eyebrows playfully, glancing at his father. "Judging by Baba's face… I don't think you were saying anything nice."
Saladin gave him a side glance but couldn't hide his smile.
"Alright, let's not get into that now," Rihanna said, standing up with a light chuckle. "But really, why so late to the office today?"
"Just had some important things to take care of, Maa," Haris replied gently, straightening his sleeves.
Saladin got up from his chair, brushing invisible dust off his coat. "Of course. He has more important work than the office, it seems. Right, Rihanna?" he said with a teasing tone as he walked toward the door.
Rihanna shook her head with a smile and turned to Haris. "Haris, come on. We have a meeting to attend. Before that, review the files kept on your Baba's desk. They're important."
"Yes, Ammi," Haris said, already walking toward the desk.
The air in the room now felt complete—three different energies, each strong in its own way, blending into one moment of family, work, and a quiet sense of purpose.