Adnan had already buried one life.That was why he refused to begin another.
Five years had passed since the water closed over his son's head — since grief rewrote every rule he once believed in. He learned then that love was not a gift, but a risk — one he would not take again.
So when his father asked him to marry, Adnan agreed only under conditions meant to protect him from hope.No children.No promises.No future that could break him twice.
He did not yet know the woman who would accept those terms.He did not yet know how heavy it is to live not in fear of loss —
but in fear of living again….
The Marriage Contract Scene (Nikah)
The room was quiet in the way mosques often are —
not silent, but softened.
The air carried the faint scent of rosewater and old prayer rugs. Men sat on one side, women on the other, separated not by distance but by intention. Conversations were low, respectful, as if everyone understood that something fragile was about to be placed into God's hands.
Adnan sat straight-backed, his hands folded loosely in his lap.
He wore an off-white shalwar kameez — simple, pressed, immaculate. No gold watch. No unnecessary flourish. He looked composed, but anyone watching closely would notice how still he was, as if movement itself required effort.
Across the room, behind a thin partition, Saba sat beside her mother.
Her dupatta rested carefully over her head, not out of shyness but habit. Her face was calm — not radiant, not trembling. She looked like a woman who had prepared herself for this moment by letting go of expectations long before she arrived.
The Sheikh cleared his throat gently.
"Bismillah-ir-Rahman-ir-Raheem."
The murmurs faded. Even the children went quiet.
"This Nikah," the Sheikh continued, his voice steady and warm,
"is a contract — a promise made before Allah, not just before people."
The word contract lingered.
Adnan's jaw tightened slightly.
The Sheikh addressed him first.
"Adnan ibn Farooq," he said, "do you accept Saba bint Ahmed in Nikah, with the agreed-upon Mehr, according to the laws of Islam?"
The room seemed to hold its breath.
Adnan did not answer immediately.
Not because he was unsure —
but because certainty, in this moment, felt heavy.
He thought of his father's pale face.
Of the quiet room that once held his son's laughter.
Of the condition he had placed like a wall around his future.
He swallowed.
"I accept," he said finally.
"Qubool hai."
The words were clear. Controlled.
The Sheikh nodded and turned toward the women's side.
"Saba bint Ahmed," he called gently, "do you accept Adnan ibn Farooq in Nikah, with the agreed-upon Mehr, according to the laws of Islam?"
Behind the partition, Saba's fingers curled briefly into her dupatta.
She did not look at her father.
She did not look at her mother.
She closed her eyes — not in fear, but in grounding.
She had already buried three children.
She had already survived a marriage ending.
This was not the most frightening thing she had done.
"Yes," she said quietly.
"Qubool hai."
There was no tremor in her voice.
The Sheikh smiled softly.
"For the second time," he repeated the question to Adnan.
Adnan answered without hesitation.
"Qubool hai."
And then to Saba again.
"Qubool hai," she said — just as steadily.
The Sheikh raised his hands.
"Allahumma barik lahuma wa barik alayhuma wa jma' baynahuma fi khair."
Ameen echoed around the room, gentle and sincere.
Sweets were passed. A glass of rose juice was offered to Adnan first, then to Saba. Photographs were taken — polite smiles, careful angles.
From the outside, it looked like a successful Nikah.
From the inside, two wounded people had just promised not to harm each other — even if they didn't yet know how to love.
Adnan did not look toward the partition.
Saba did not expect him to.
But somewhere between the spoken vows and the silent prayers, something irreversible had occurred.
They were no longer alone in their grief.
They were now witnesses to each other — before God.
=========
The Sheikh's voice reaches her as if from underwater.
Her name.
Her father's name.
The words Nikah. Mehr. Allah.
All familiar. All heavy.
Saba keeps her eyes lowered — not out of obedience, but because looking up would mean meeting too many expectations at once. Her mother's quiet hope. Her father's relief. The room's silent verdict that this is good, that this is settled.
Her fingers grip the edge of her dupatta.
This is not how I imagined marriage, she thinks —
not bitterly, not sadly — just truthfully.
She remembers hospital rooms instead.
White sheets. The smell of antiseptic. Doctors who spoke gently and meant well. The way her body failed silently, again and again, without drama.
Three times.
She remembers the fifth month most clearly.
How real it felt then.
How close.
The Sheikh asks the question.
Do you accept?
She doesn't think of Adnan first.
She thinks of the children who never stayed.
Of the marriage that ended without cruelty but without mercy either.
Of the years where she learned how to smile without hope and still remain kind.
She thinks:
I am not coming to be saved.
I am not coming to be loved.
I am coming because I am tired of being alone.
And then, softer:
And because I know how to survive loss.
She exhales.
"Yes," she says.
Qubool hai.
The words don't feel like a beginning.
They feel like a truce.
She does not ask Allah for happiness.
Only for dignity.
And for the strength not to grow small in a marriage built on fear.
======
Later — when the room fills again with voices, sweets, polite congratulations — Adnan slips away.
Not far. Just enough.
He stands near a window where the light is thin and late afternoon dust floats lazily, indifferent to human vows.
He places his hands together, slowly.
Not dramatically.
Almost reluctantly.
He has prayed all his life.
But grief has a way of making prayer feel like standing in front of a locked door.
Still.
He closes his eyes.
Ya Allah,
he begins — and stops.
The words don't come in order.
He thinks of his son first.
Always first.
The small hand that once wrapped around his finger.
The weight of a body that no longer breathed.
His chest tightens.
I tried to protect myself, he admits silently.
I tried to make rules so You wouldn't hurt me again.
He swallows.
If that was arrogance, forgive me.
He thinks of Saba — sitting somewhere behind a partition, calm, composed, unreadable. A woman who did not ask him for love. Who did not demand promises he could not make.
I don't know how to be gentle anymore, he confesses.
I don't know how to open rooms I locked years ago.
His hands tremble — just slightly.
But I swear I will not be cruel, he promises.
I will not punish her for what I lost.
I will not make her smaller to protect myself.
Then, after a pause — the most honest part:
And if You intend to give me something again,
even something I did not ask for…
teach me not to run.
He lowers his hands.
The room is still loud. Life continues. People laugh.
But for the first time in years, Adnan feels something unfamiliar settle in his chest.
Not hope.
Not peace.
Just the quiet awareness that his grief is no longer the only one in the room.
And that changes everything.
======
It had been late.
The kind of late where the house forgets its own sounds.
Adnan sat beside his father's bed, watching the shallow rise and fall of a chest that once carried authority without effort. The room smelled faintly of medicine and old wood — the scent of time slowing down.
His father's eyes were open, unfocused, but alert enough to search.
"You shouldn't be alone," his father said, voice thin but insistent.
"After I'm gone."
Adnan didn't answer.
He had learned that silence was kinder than arguments at this stage.
"The house is too quiet," his father continued.
"A man shouldn't come home to echoes."
Adnan looked at the wall. At a framed photograph turned face down on a shelf. He hadn't moved it in years.
"I won't marry," he said finally. Calm. Final.
His father's brow creased. "You already did once."
That was the wound. Clean. Accurate.
Adnan inhaled slowly.
"If I do," he said, choosing each word as if it might explode,
"there will be conditions."
His father's gaze sharpened.
"No children," Adnan said.
Not harshly. Not apologetically.
Like a fact written in stone.
A long pause.
"I won't bury another child," he added, quieter now.
"I won't live through that again."
His father closed his eyes.
"And the woman?" he asked.
Adnan hesitated — just enough to betray how ugly the words felt even to him.
"She should not want children," he said.
"And if she cannot have them… that would be better."
He waited for anger.
For reproach.
Instead, his father sighed — deeply, tiredly.
"You think life listens to conditions?" the old man murmured.
Adnan didn't answer.
Because the truth was — he knew it didn't.
But fear had taught him to try anyway.
=====
Her mother spoke first.
Carefully. Gently.
As if speaking to glass.
"There is a family," she said.
"A good family."
Saba nodded, stirring her tea though she wasn't drinking it.
"A man," her father added.
"Educated. Stable. Respectable. "
Saba nodded again.
"He has… experienced loss," her mother said softly.
That word. Loss.
Saba's hand stilled.
"There is a condition," her father said, clearing his throat.
"He does not want children."
The room waited.
Saba did not flinch.
Her mother rushed on, almost apologetic.
"He was very clear. He said he cannot bear it."
Saba kept her eyes on the surface of the tea.
The way steam rose and disappeared without protest.
Of course he can't, she thought.
Neither could I.
They watched her — searching her face for disappointment, protest, heartbreak.
She gave them none.
What she did not say:
That she had already mourned children who never took a breath.
That her body had already betrayed her dreams quietly, without witnesses.
That she had already been married once, hopeful and patient, and left anyway.
What she did not say:
That the condition felt less like a sentence
and more like a familiar landscape.
She thought of hospital corridors.
Of doctors' eyes sliding away from hers.
Of how people spoke of her womb in whispers, as if it were a moral failure.
She thought:
At least this man is honest about his fear.
Her father leaned forward. "You don't have to agree."
Saba looked up then.
Her face was calm. Almost serene.
"I know," she said.
What she did not add:
But I am tired of being the only one who loses.
What she did not add:
If marriage is to be companionship rather than promise, perhaps I can survive it.
What she did not add:
I have already made peace with what my body could not do.
She set the cup down.
"Tell them yes," she said.
Her mother's eyes filled with relief.
Her father exhaled like a man released from a long-held breath.
Saba folded her hands in her lap.
Inside, something quiet settled — not hope, not joy.
Acceptance.
And the knowledge that whatever this marriage would be,
she would enter it whole —
scarred, yes —
but not broken.
=======
The villa exhaled once the last guests left.
The echo of congratulations faded down the long hallway. Dishes clinked softly somewhere downstairs. A distant laugh from Adnan's eldest brother drifted briefly, then disappeared behind closing doors.
What remained was space.
Too much of it…
Saba stood near the window of the bedroom she had been shown earlier — their room, everyone had said politely. The curtains were half-drawn. Outside, the garden lights cast soft shadows across trimmed hedges and stone paths that had known generations of footsteps.
This house had history.
None of it was hers.
She removed her jewelry carefully, placing each piece into the small velvet box her mother had pressed into her hands before leaving. Her movements were slow, deliberate — the way women move when they don't want to wake expectations.
The door opened quietly behind her.
Adnan entered without ceremony.
He had loosened his collar. The formality had left his shoulders, but not the distance. He looked around the room once — not at her — as if mapping exits.
"It's… late," he said.
"Yes," Saba replied gently.
Silence settled between them. Not awkward. Just unfamiliar.
He cleared his throat.
"I want to be clear," he said, turning to face her now — fully, properly. "Tonight… and any night — nothing is expected of you."
She met his gaze calmly.
"I know," she said.
He nodded, relieved she hadn't made him say more.
"This house," he continued, "it's crowded. My elder brother, his wife, his children, my sister, my parents — people talk." A pause. "I don't want to embarrass you. Or myself."
She understood immediately what he meant.
"I'll wait until everyone's asleep," he said. "Then I'll go to another room."
She inclined her head slightly. "That's fine."
Another pause.
He hesitated, then added — almost awkwardly, as if remembering something important.
"This room is yours. Please don't feel… displaced."
The word lingered.
Saba smiled — faintly, sincerely.
"I've felt displaced before," she said. "This isn't new."
Something flickered across his face — not guilt, not pity. Recognition, perhaps.
"I'll say Shab Bakhair now," he said.
"Shab Bakhair, Adnan."
He nodded once more and left, closing the door softly behind him.
======
He didn't go far.
He waited.
Sat in the dark of the hallway until the villa sank into sleep — doors shutting, lights dimming, the murmured authority of his eldest brother replaced by the quiet breathing of children.
Only then did he move.
The door to his son's room opened with a familiar creak.
Everything was untouched.
The small bed. The shelf of toys. A pair of shoes still lined neatly near the wall — preserved, like memory under glass.
He reached for the edge of the bedside table, then stopped himself, his hand hovering briefly above a small plastic car before withdrawing, as if touch itself might disturb what remained.
Adnan lay down fully clothed.
He didn't cry.
He rarely did anymore.
He stared at the ceiling and thought — I did not lie.
I warned her.
I did not promise what I cannot give.
And yet, somewhere beneath the certainty, something uneasy stirred.
For the first time in years, someone else slept under his roof — not as a guest, not as family, but as his wife.
The thought did not comfort him.
Nor did it repel him.
It simply existed.
=========
Back in the bedroom, Saba sat on the edge of the bed.
The sheets were smooth. Untouched.
She removed her dupatta and folded it neatly over the chair. She lay down on one side of the bed — instinctively leaving space beside her — and turned off the lamp.
The darkness felt kind.
She was alone, yes.
But not humiliated.
Not pressured.
Not obligated to perform gratitude or desire.
She stared at the ceiling and let herself think the thoughts she had not said aloud all evening.
This will not be easy.
She had known that.
This marriage will require patience.
She had practiced patience most of her life.
But then — quieter, more honest:
Or maybe… it will require nothing at all.
She thought of Adnan's restraint. His careful distance. His refusal to take more than he could carry.
She did not mistake it for love.
But she didn't mistake it for cruelty either.
She closed her eyes.
For the first time since her divorce, she was sharing a house with someone — without needing to shrink herself to fit.
That felt like something.
Not happiness.
Not hope.
But a beginning that didn't hurt.
And for tonight —
that was enough.