The next day, Zain arrived at his aunt's house. The place was just as it had always been—like a palace. Every corner gleamed with grandeur. Crystal chandeliers shimmered above, their light scattering across long velvet curtains that swayed gently against the polished marble floors. Even the walls seemed to breathe old money and quiet power. For a moment, Zain felt small in the vastness of it, as though he had stepped into another world altogether.
That evening, a small celebration was held. It was his aunt and uncle's wedding anniversary. Unlike the crowded gatherings Zain had imagined, the party was intimate—only a handful of close friends, the couple, and Zain himself. Soft laughter echoed through the ornate halls, glasses clinked gently, and classical music played in the background. His aunt stayed close to him, making sure he felt included, but Zain mostly observed in silence.
The party stretched late into the night. One by one, the guests departed, leaving behind the faint scent of perfumes and spilled wine. When the house finally quieted, his aunt kissed his forehead with warmth and told him to rest. Zain nodded, slipping away to his room. It felt strange—resting in luxury that didn't feel his own. By the time he lay down, the house was deep in silence, each room holding secrets he couldn't quite name.
The next morning, the mansion stirred with quiet activity. Servants moved gracefully, setting breakfast on the long dining table—platters of bread, cheese, eggs, and tea steaming in porcelain cups. Zain joined his aunt and uncle at the table. His uncle, reading the newspaper, finally looked up and said with a faintly mocking tone:
"Only a fool would leave all this comfort behind to live like a wanderer."
The words stung, but Zain stayed silent, lowering his gaze to his plate. The remark hung in the air like smoke. His aunt shot her husband a sharp look, gently raising her brow as if to silence him.
"Everyone lives the life they choose," she said calmly, placing a hand on Zain's arm. "What matters is peace of heart. Let him take his time. He knows what he wants."
Her words softened the tension, but Zain still felt the weight of his uncle's judgment pressing against him.
Breakfast ended, and his uncle left for the office in his usual routine. Zain excused himself quietly and wandered out into the garden with his coffee cup. The air was crisp, and the flowers glistened with dew. He walked without aim, letting silence wrap around him.
Meanwhile, his aunt went upstairs to Zain's room. She waved off the servants, insisting she would handle his things herself since he hadn't visited in so long. "Just take the laundry to the cleaners," she instructed softly.
Opening his wardrobe, she smiled faintly at how neatly his clothes were arranged—as though belonging to a prince. She moved to tidy the desk, but as she lifted Zain's bag, something slipped out. A card.
It fell onto the floor with a quiet thud.
She bent down, picked it up, and studied it. The name gleamed against the glossy surface: **Hidden Art Gallery School.** For a moment, her brows lifted in surprise. Then, slowly, she placed it back exactly where she had found it, as if respecting his unspoken secret.
Later, she found Zain in the garden, standing still among the flowers with his half-empty cup. She walked up to him with her own coffee, her eyes gentle but curious.
"So," she began softly, "you're going to the Hidden Art Gallery School? It's quite famous—not just for its prestige, but for being the place where the illustrations of those beloved fairy tale books are born."
Zain turned his head sharply, his eyes widening slightly. He hadn't expected her to know.
"How… how do you know?" he asked, his voice low, almost defensive.
She smiled knowingly. "I saw the card in your bag. Don't worry, I didn't tell anyone."
For a moment, Zain said nothing. His expression was unreadable, but his silence was louder than words. Finally, he spoke:
"I'm… not going there. They want me to join. As an artist."
His aunt's face lit up with pride. "That's wonderful, Zain! You should do it. You've always had a gift. The world deserves to see it."
Zain shifted uncomfortably, glancing away. "I don't know if I want to."
His aunt reached out, placing her hand over his. "Listen to me, dear. You don't need to work. You could open your own gallery if you wished. But joining them… that could be something more. Not just about art—it's about you finding yourself. Making friends. Living fully. You've kept too much of yourself locked away. I only want you to be happy."
For the first time that morning, Zain met her gaze. There was no judgment in her eyes—only quiet hope.
And though he didn't answer, a flicker of warmth passed through him. With his aunt, at least, he felt a little less alone.