ZAIN
He had just returned to visit his mother in the hospital.
He spent two hours beside her bed, holding her hand, gazing at her face... searching for remnants of the woman who always responded to him with loving eyes. He hoped she would reciprocate, as she always had, with immense motherly affection.
At this moment, she was far from her original self ..fragile, broken, in her most vulnerable form. Yet, she was still his mother. Even like this, she needed him, and he needed her, for she was the only connection he had left to hold on to life in this world.
Mrs. Ayesha Farooq. A dutiful wife and a devoted mother. She never once failed to fulfill her responsibilities .. always by their side whenever they needed her. The center of their gravity.
Only a week had passed since he buried his father in the ground. He clung to hope that this was merely a nightmare... that one day, he would wake up from it.
His mother would be calling him down for breakfast. His father would be at his bedside urging him to hurry for tennis practice.
But his cruel sanity reminded him: it wasn't possible.
He closed his eyes. The coffee on the table had gone cold. His thoughts were scattered, drifting into old memories. A desperate wish to relive those moments again.
"Zain."
He heard his name.
Only he knew how desperately he longed to hear his parents call him by that name again. He looked up ... Mr. Alam was standing there, pensive, sharing in his pain.
For a fleeting moment, Zain felt blessed to have a few loyal people left in his life ... like Mrs. Stafford and Mr. Alam. But even their presence couldn't fill the vast emptiness his parents had left behind.
"Mr. Jackson wants to meet you," Mr. Alam said softly.
Zain nodded and rose from his seat.
Life was calling him back. But he wondered... would he respond to it the same way he used to?
"Hello, Zain. I'm truly sorry about your father. He was indeed a great loss," said Mr. Jackson as he shook Zain's hand.
Mr. Jackson was his manager at the LTA ... Lawn Tennis Association, the governing body for tennis in the UK.
Zain had known him since the age of eighteen, ever since he began professionaly playing for the LTA.
"I came to inform you that your flight to Nottingham for the Queen's Club Championship is scheduled for tonight at 8 p.m.,"
Mr. Jackson said, in his usual professional tone ... unaware of the emotional storm he had just stirred within Zain.
Queen's Club Championship.
It wasn't just a tournament. It was his father's dream ... a dream nurtured for the past seven years. He had raised Zain for it ... ensuring proper sleep, diet, and relentless training.
His father's life had revolved around him. School, training, repeat. Zain's childhood had been caged within that circle.
"Zain, I don't know whether I'll be alive to see it... but it's my dream to see my son holding that trophy in your hands."
Zain remembered the way his father's face lit up ... filled with hope, dreams, and passion.
Back in 8th-grade, when he qualified for the Under-14 category at LTA, his father had been ecstatic ... dancing around his mother with uncontainable joy.
Zain had never seen him that happy before.
The watch his father gifted him on that day was still wrapped around his wrist. It used to be a symbol of achievement. Now, it felt like his father's touch ... his way of holding Zain's hand even in absence.
His Baba...
Tears welled up in his eyes.
Why, Baba?
Why did you leave?
You promised you'd be there for me... but you forgot your promise.
Did you think I was strong enough to bear this?
Did you think I didn't need you anymore?
You were wrong, Baba.
I'm so weak... and so alone.
Baba, please come back ..
for me, for Mama... or I'll come to you myself.
I'll never let myself be at peace.
I won't allow happiness to touch me.
I won't trust or love anyone again.
I swear, Baba... I'll keep breathing, but I will never let myself truly live.
He appeared calm and composed on the outside, but within, his heart screamed and wept for the man whose guidance had always steered his every step.
KIRT
Kirt had slowly adjusted to his new routine. The supervisor was strict, allowing no compromise on work. His main duty was cleaning and mopping the studio floors during the morning shift, but the tasks rarely ended there.
Sometimes the shifts stretched late into the night, and he found himself working alone, exhausted. Besides cleaning, he was also expected to serve tea, water, and juices to the crew. On double shifts, he barely got time to sleep. Still, despite the weariness, he was grateful for the small sense of peace this job brought into his life.
No matter how demanding the work became, Kirt carried it out with quiet dedication. After two long months, the supervisor finally decided to assign him a helper.
For a moment, Kirt froze. The thought of sharing his space again felt like stepping back into the danger he had once narrowly escaped. For an instant, he even considered returning to Aunty Fern's canteen, but that would mean giving up school. Her place was too far, and managing both work and studies would become impossible.
So he convinced himself to think differently. Maybe this time, luck would favor him. Maybe this new companion wouldn't bring trouble. As a precaution, he always carried a knife, but even that made him uneasy. He feared his own temper, afraid of what might happen if he ever used it in anger.
The next morning, the supervisor introduced Ming.
Ming was the same age as Kirt, yet the contrast between them was striking. Kirt's tall frame made him seem older, while Ming looked even thinner and weaker than he was.
Relief washed over Kirt. This boy didn't look like a threat. If anything, Kirt felt stronger beside him.
"Kirt, you'll share your workload with Ming. Teach him the tasks," the supervisor said, his tone brisk. Then he added, almost casually, "And one more thing, he'll also be staying here with you."
The words made Kirt restless. "But sir," he hesitated, "there's only the old sofa outside. That's where I sleep... where will he sleep?"
"Adjust yourselves if you need this job," the supervisor said curtly, leaving no room for discussion.
The thought unsettled him.
Space was already limited. For a moment, he even wished he could keep working alone, just to have those few quiet hours stretched out on the worn sofa to himself.
The shift ended without trouble. Ming, though silent, shouldered a fair share of the work. Kirt quickly realized this boy could never be a danger .... he spoke little, and only about the tasks at hand.
Thanks to Ming, their duties finished earlier than usual, giving Kirt an extra hour before school. But the question of the sofa still loomed. Who would sleep where?
As Kirt mulled over possible solutions, he watched Ming drag two chairs together, spread his bedding across them, and climb onto his makeshift bed. Within minutes, the boy was already snoring, leaving Kirt quietly astonished at how simply the problem had solved itself.