Zain stepped out of the grand mansion that afternoon, the sun lying low, painting the sky in soft shades of amber. The silence of the estate followed him down the marble steps, broken only by the faint rustle of the garden trees. His aunt walked with him until the main door, her eyes warm but layered with something deeper—a hope she rarely voiced aloud.
"Best of luck, Zain," she said softly, her hand brushing against his arm as though she could anchor him, even for a fleeting second. "You are not different from us. It's only your way of seeing the world that is different."
Her words lingered in the air like a prayer, more than a farewell. She paused, her voice gentler now but carrying a quiet insistence.
"I want you to open the doors of your heart and mind, my dear. Don't keep the world outside forever. Let someone close… if anyone ever tries."
Zain did not reply. His gaze lowered, fixed on the polished ground beneath his shoes, as though searching for an answer there. Something tightened in his chest, but his face gave nothing away.
With a small nod, he turned and walked toward the waiting street, leaving the heavy gates of the mansion closing slowly behind him.
The train ride back home was quiet. The motion of the carriage, the faint hum of chatter, the flicker of lights across the windows—it all blurred into the background. But his thoughts refused to still.
*Should I join the art gallery?*
The question repeated like an echo in his mind, over and over. He couldn't decide. Something within him pulled back, as though invisible chains bound his will.
It wasn't just hesitation. It was fear.
Not of failure, but of causing hurt. Somewhere deep in his chest, buried under years of silence, lay memories he could neither fully recall nor escape—the fragments of a childhood marked with shadows, the strange dreams, the lost pieces of memory that never settled.
Even now, as the train rattled through the tunnels, that weight clung to him.
He had spent years separating himself from others, keeping his distance. Even in college, he only went to class for the sake of studying, never opening himself to friendships, never stepping into their world. And now, this—an art gallery where connection, expression, and exposure were unavoidable.
He exhaled, pressing his palm against his chest as if to hold the storm inside him. *I want a normal life… but what if I am my own enemy?*
The thought burned, sharp and relentless.
When the train stopped, Zain rose abruptly, pushing past the closing doors. He needed air. He needed space—before the storm inside him tore him apart.
He walked without direction, his footsteps carrying him through streets until finally, he found himself standing in a quiet park. The evening had softened into dusk, painting the sky in muted blues and pinks.
Children were playing there—running, laughing, tumbling over the grass without a care in the world. Their laughter echoed in the air, light and pure, the kind of sound that carried no weight of the past and no fear of the future.
Zain sank onto a wooden bench, his hands resting on his knees as he watched them. For a long time, he said nothing, only observing—their small feet pounding against the dirt, their voices rising in cheerful shouts, their smiles bright like fragments of sunlight.
Something inside him shifted. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, like a knot loosening after years of being bound. The heaviness on his chest, the suffocating fog in his thoughts—suddenly, they seemed lighter.
He leaned back against the bench, closing his eyes. For the first time in a long time, he breathed deeply, and it didn't hurt. The air filled his lungs, cool and clean, and a quiet peace spread through him.
A whisper left his lips, barely audible.
"Maybe this is where peace lies."
And in that fleeting moment, the decision came to him.
He would join the art gallery.
Not for the world's recognition. Not even for the weight of expectation.
But for the children's laughter he had just witnessed—for the innocence that reminded him that life could still hold light and color.
And perhaps… for himself, too.