The meeting had finally ended, leaving Zayn slumped slightly in his chair, the bright glare of the computer screens still lingering in his vision. Hours of meticulous review and decision-making had left faint lines across his face, evidence of concentration and responsibility. Papers lay neatly stacked on his desk, signed and organized, each one a small victory in a day full of weighty choices.
Hamad knocked lightly.
"Come in," Zayn called, his voice rough from the strain of long hours.
Hamad entered, carrying a file with careful precision. "Sir, your signature," he said, placing it on the desk.
Zayn leaned back and quickly scanned the key paragraphs, a habit he could not shake even after years of experience.
"It's alright, sir. Take your time. Read it first, then sign it," Hamad said, patient and steady.
Zayn paused, then looked up with a faint, tired smile. "But you've read it thoroughly, haven't you?"
"Yes, cover to cover," Hamad confirmed.
A brief smile softened Zayn's expression. "Then I can certainly trust my college friend that much."
They shared a quiet, genuine chuckle, the kind that only years of friendship could forge. For a moment, the weight of the day lifted, replaced by a brief warmth that had nothing to do with work.
With the signatures done and the documents properly arranged, Hamad nodded and stepped back. Zayn leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly, the office finally quiet and still.
Faqair gathered his things and looked at Zayn. "I should head home now. Grandpa must be worried—I haven't seen him or talked with him since morning."
Zayn nodded, running a hand over his face. "Yes, you go. I'll wrap this up and be home in an hour," he said.
Faqair smiled faintly and left, the hum of his car engine breaking the silence as he drove through the quiet streets toward home.
The house was dimly lit when he arrived, shadows stretching across the familiar wooden floors. He stepped inside cautiously, approaching the living room.
Suddenly, a voice rang out, sharp and panicked. A figure lunged, and a rough walking stick struck sharply.
"You thief! Get out of our house!" Grandpa shouted.
"Grandpa, it's me! Stop!" Faqair cried, raising his arms defensively.
Grandpa froze, squinting in the dim light. "Faqair?"
"Yes, Grandpa. It's me," Faqair said, voice trembling from both pain and shock.
Grandpa's face went pale. "How could I… recognize you? You wore a white shirt this morning, and now… this grey thing…"
Faqair forced a calm smile, concealing the truth to avoid worrying him. "No, Grandpa. I came straight from the office meeting. You've seen this," he said, lying about the shirt.
Grandpa reached for his glasses, voice thick with guilt. "Oh… I must have… forgotten, beta. My memory…" He softened. "Please forgive me! Sit here on the sofa."
Faqair sank down, shoulder throbbing. "First you hit me until I screamed, and now you show love? Grandpa, it hurts… it really does."
"I am so, so sorry, beta. I didn't mean to scare you. I just—" Grandpa's voice faltered. "I'll get the First-Aid box. Don't move."
The house settled into silence again, the night outside calm, while inside, the bond between grandfather and Faqair quietly endured—tested, but unbroken.
To be continued...