WASHMA
She was deep in slumber when her alarm began to beep. She squinted, stretching out a hand to turn it off. 3:30. She shut her eyes again, trying to fall back asleep. Just yesterday, she had given the final paper of her third year at Khyber Medical College.
The past two months had been exhausting, irregular meals, sleepless nights, no proper rest, her entire focus consumed by studies. Now, she longed for a sleep so heavy it would swallow even her dreams. But the nagging thoughts chased away her drowsiness like a restless spirit.
She turned her head and saw her roommate...her closest friend on campus...Rozina, forever lost in her delusions. Obsessed with celebrities of every kind, from entertainment stars to sports idols, Rozina was never without a new crush.
These days, it was Zain Farooq. Even during grueling medical exams, she would disappear into the hostel's common room to watch his tennis matches on TV. Washma often had to drag her back to their room to study; without her, Rozina might have submitted blank answer sheets because of Zain.
When Zain would be replaced on her ever-changing list of obsessions was anyone's guess. Before him, it had been Dhoni, for whom she had once fallen head over heels.
Rozina, snoring loudly like an elephant. A wave of envy stirred in her at the sight of such carefree sleep. With a sigh, she closed her eyes again, but not everyone was blessed with the art of drifting off amid life's noisy drums.
Exasperated, she finally sat up and slipped on her slippers. The call for Fajr had already filled the dawn. Entering the washroom, she performed ablution and then stood upon her prayer mat.
After offering her prayers, she slipped quietly out of the room, pulling the door shut with gentle care so as not to disturb Rozina's royal slumber.
The corridor lay silent, its stillness broken only by the soft echo of her steps as she descended the staircase. Lifting her gaze, she found the sky in transition, its deep midnight blue melting slowly into the pale hues of dawn.
In the garden, the earth was alive with freshness. The lush green grass, damp with morning dew, seemed to beckon her. She slid off her slippers and stepped barefoot onto the cool blades. The touch sent a shiver of calm rising from her feet, flowing through every corner of her weary body. Closing her eyes, she stretched her arms wide, as though she could gather the morning itself into her embrace.
For a fleeting moment, she felt weightless ... free. It was the freedom her heart yearned for, a freedom she knew would vanish once she returned to Astogana, where fate would seal her path with no turning back.
Drawing in a long breath, she exhaled slowly, opening her eyes again to the world around her. The hostel buildings enclosed the garden on all sides, yet the sun's tender rays slipped through, reaching every window, every room, as though nothing could restrain the light.
As the sun rose higher, tinting the sky with gold, she turned and walked back toward her room. Each step was unhurried, deliberate....like one carrying both peace and an unspoken burden.
When she was returning, Washma collided with Tamana ...the dentistry student from last year. Her sharp gaze lingered, lips curling into a smirk that seemed to hide more than it revealed.
It wasn't the first time. Washma had often caught her staring, those dark eyes carrying a weight she could never decipher.
Her tomboyish build, cropped hair, and swagger were the most noticeable parts of her presence.
Washma often wondered how she had even managed admission. She never looked serious about studies. Then the truth reached her ears....Tamana was a national-level baseball player, admitted on a sports quota.
That evening, on the stairs, Washma stumbled slightly, catching the railing for balance. But before she could steady herself, Tamana's fingers slid over hers. The grip felt like a hundred scorpions biting her at once.
"Remove your hand," she demanded, her voice sharp with fury.
"Oh, sorry," Tamana replied, but her smirk only deepened, her eyes glittering with something unreadable.
"Tamana, let's go. We're late for running," her friend snapped, tugging at her arm.
Washma turned quickly and rushed upstairs, but the unease of Tamana's negative aura stayed with her. She could feel that pair of eyes drilling into her back, following her every step.
Inside her room, she collapsed onto her bed.
What kind of girl is she?
Her mind screamed red warnings. There was something unsettling about Tamana ..
something dangerous.
Washma promised herself she would never let their paths cross again. Yet, the darkness in Tamana's eyes lingered in her memory, leaving behind an unshakable fear as she slipped into a restless sleep.
ZAIN
Zain's life had transformed in ways he never imagined. At twenty-four, he stood as a rising star, a celebrated figure in the world of sports. He had thousands of diehard fans across the globe, who saw him as their undefeated champion, their invincible hero at Wimbledon. He never disappointed them; every time he stepped onto the court, he carried their hopes with him, and victory seemed to follow his name.
Yet, behind every triumph and every cheer of the crowd lingered a quiet ache....the unhealed wound of losing his father. No matter how much time passed, that emptiness refused to fade. But he had long accepted the truth: his father would never return, and life had to be lived without him.
His mother, however, was the reason he kept moving forward. She had fought her way out of the coma, and though her body no longer obeyed her fully, her spirit remained unbroken.
She could not walk, and words refused to form on her lips, but her hands moved gently, and her eyes held a world of understanding. To Zain, that was everything. At least she was still with him, unlike his father.
After offering the Fajr prayer, Zain walked toward his mother's room, his steps echoing the rhythm of his daily ritual.
As he pushed open the door, he found Mrs. Farooq seated by the window, the Holy Quran resting on a small table before her, its position perfectly aligned with her weakened sight. Her eyes moved gently across the lines, reciting each verse silently in her mind.
A tender smile curved his lips, one that belonged to her alone.
"SubhanAllah... my mother looks as beautiful as ever," he murmured softly.
He bent down, took both her frail hands in his, and kissed them with reverence. To him, she was sacred ... his anchor, his sanctuary. In response, Ayesha lifted her trembling hand and patted his head, a gesture that carried all the love words could never express.
Zain laid his head in her lap and closed his eyes, surrendering himself to her touch. Her fingers began to caress his scalp, gentle and soothing, and for those moments, the world outside ceased to exist. In her presence, he felt peace, solace, and a relief he found nowhere else. Perhaps this was what his faith meant when it spoke of paradise lying beneath a mother's feet.
Minutes slipped by in silence until Zain finally opened his eyes. Across the room stood Mrs. Stafford, waiting patiently.
"Good morning, Mr. Zain," she said politely. "The physiotherapist is here for Madam's morning massage."
Lifting his gaze, Zain met her eyes. She greeted him with a courteous smile, and he acknowledged it with a brief nod. The sacred moment between mother and son gave way to routine once more.
"I'll be heading for my workout," Zain said calmly, rising to his feet. "Please arrange breakfast for us together afterward."
He gave his mother one last warm smile before leaving the room. But the moment the door closed behind him, that smile faded. His face turned solemn again, carrying no trace of the tenderness he had shown just moments ago.
The weight of his unspoken grief, the emptiness his father left behind, and the silent ache of his mother's condition settled back over him like a shadow he could never escape.
At Break fast Table
Breakfast was lighthearted, filled with small smiles and silent gestures from his mother that warmed Zain's heart. For a brief while, the heaviness on his shoulders seemed to ease. But as the plates were cleared away, Mr. Alam entered, his expression as serious as ever.
"Sir," he began, "a reminder of today's schedule. You'll start with a meeting at the LTA..."
Zain turned to his mother before leaving. He crouched slightly, his tone gentle.
"Ma, I'm going now. Give me your blessings. We'll meet again at dinner."
Mrs. Farooq's lips curved faintly, her eyes shining with silent love. She lifted her trembling hand and patted his head....her wordless way of sending him off.
Zain lingered for a moment, his gaze locked on hers, as if drawing strength from the quiet blessing only a mother could give. Then he straightened, gave her one last tender smile, and walked out.
On the way, Mr. Alam brought up the subject that Zain had heard too many times before.
"Sir, please... it's been three years. You cannot keep avoiding this. Mr. Farooq's will....."
"I'm not interested in his property," Zain cut him off sharply. His voice carried both pain and steel.
"What I wanted was him. His presence, his support.....the way he always stood by me. If he is not here, nothing he left behind matters."
"But sir...."
"No more discussion, Mr. Alam." The stern finality in his words drew a hard line across the topic, leaving no room for argument.
Soon, the car pulled up outside the LTA building. Zain's gaze shifted to the crowd beyond the tinted glass. The street was overflowing with paparazzi and fans, cameras flashing, voices rising in a frenzy just to catch a glimpse of him.
The roar of the crowd hit his ears as soon as he stepped out. Once, this had been his dream...to see the world yearning for him, chanting his name. But now, the thrill no longer reached him. It all felt hollow.
He slipped on his sunglasses, his expression unreadable, and strode forward. His bodyguards closed in, parting the sea of people as he walked swiftly inside without sparing a glance.