Scene One
A Week Later – Before Sunrise
A full week had passed since Hameed sahib was laid to rest.
The days no longer blurred into one another. The house had slowly, reluctantly, begun to breathe again—still heavy, still quiet, but no longer frozen in shock.
Before Fajr, Imran's eyes opened.
For a moment, he lay still, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of the fan. His body felt tired, but his mind was unusually alert. The familiar weight pressed against his chest, but today, beneath the grief, there was something else.
Resolve.
He sat up slowly, careful not to disturb the silence of the room. The bed beside him was empty; Rimsha had drifted closer to Fatima sometime during the night.
Imran glanced at the clock.
5:10 AM.
He exhaled deeply.
"Aaj jana hai," he murmured to himself.
Today, he would return to Amana Superstore.
Not because the pain had eased.
But because life, like duty, did not wait.
---
Scene Two
Rimsha Wakes – A Quiet Understanding
Imran moved quietly, performed wudu, and offered Fajr namaz alone in the corner of the room. His dua was short but sincere.
"Ya Allah… mujhe sambhal lein."
When he finished, he turned to see Rimsha stirring.
She opened her eyes slowly and sat up.
"Subah ho gayi?" she asked softly.
"Haan," Imran replied. "Aaj… main kaam par ja raha hoon."
Rimsha looked at him for a moment—really looked at him.
There was hesitation in his eyes. Fear. But also determination.
She nodded.
"Main uth kar nashta bana deti hoon," she said simply.
No questions. No emotional hesitation.
Just support.
Imran watched her as she moved out of the room, her steps steady, her dupatta drawn properly over her head.
For the first time since his father's death, he felt… less alone.
---
Scene Three
Kitchen – Morning Begins Again
The kitchen light flicked on, casting a warm glow over clean countertops and neatly stacked utensils.
Rimsha tied her dupatta securely and got to work.
She filled a pot with water and placed it on the stove.
"Fatima ke liye anda," she murmured.
As the water began to heat, she took out flour, kneading it methodically. Her movements were practiced, almost automatic—muscle memory doing what the heart was still learning to accept.
The sound of the rolling pin hitting the board echoed softly.
She cracked eggs into a bowl, whisking them with onions and green chilies.
"Bas thora sa namak," she whispered.
This was how healing began—not in words, but in routine.
---
Scene Four
Breakfast Table – Three Generations
Kulsoom aunty entered the dining area slowly, leaning slightly on the chair before sitting down.
"Tum jaldi uth gayi ho," she said.
"Imran ko office ke liye jana hai," Rimsha replied gently, placing a cup of tea in front of her.
Kulsoom aunty nodded.
"Achha hai," she said after a pause. "Ghar chalna chahiye."
There was pain in her voice—but also acceptance.
Imran joined them moments later, freshly dressed, his hair neatly combed.
He sat down quietly.
The table held warm parathas, omelets, boiled eggs, and cups of tea.
For a few seconds, no one spoke.
Then Imran picked up a piece of paratha.
"Shukriya," he said softly.
Rimsha smiled faintly and sat down as well.
They ate slowly.
Not hungrily.
But purposefully.
Kulsoom aunty ate more than she had in days. Rimsha noticed—but didn't comment.
Sometimes, healing worked best when left unspoken.
---
Scene Five
A Small Voice – 'Mama… Mama…'
From the hallway came a soft, sleepy sound.
"Mama…"
Rimsha froze.
"Mama…"
She smiled instantly.
"Fatima uth gayi," she said, standing up.
"Mamaaa…"
Rimsha answered from the kitchen, her voice warm.
"Yahin hoon beta."
Tiny footsteps padded across the floor—uneven, determined.
Fatima appeared at the doorway, rubbing one eye, her hair sticking up messily.
"Mama," she repeated, her arms stretched forward.
Kulsoom aunty's lips curved into a tired smile.
"Dekho isko," she said softly. "Bilkul apni maa pe gayi hai."
Fatima didn't wait.
She marched straight toward the kitchen, her tiny feet slapping lightly against the floor.
---
Scene Six
Kitchen – A Mother's Morning
Rimsha crouched down just as Fatima reached her.
"Mera bacha," she said, lifting her into her arms.
Fatima rested her head against Rimsha's shoulder for a moment, then wriggled free.
Her eyes caught the pot on the stove.
"Egg," she said proudly.
Rimsha laughed quietly.
"Haan, tumhara anda tayar hai."
She peeled the boiled egg, cutting it into small pieces, blowing gently to cool it.
Fatima sat on the counter stool, kicking her legs.
"Papa?" she asked suddenly.
Rimsha paused for half a second.
"Papa office ja rahe hain," she replied calmly.
Fatima nodded, satisfied.
The innocence cut deep—but also healed.
---
Scene Seven
Leaving for Work – A New Step
Imran adjusted his watch and stood up.
"I'm leaving," he said.
Rimsha turned toward him, Fatima still in her arms.
"Allah hifazat mein rakhay," she said.
Imran hesitated for a moment—then bent down and kissed Fatima's forehead.
"Papa jaldi aa jayega," he whispered.
Fatima clapped her hands. "Bye!"
Imran smiled—a small, broken smile, but real.
Kulsoom aunty spoke quietly.
"Beta… sambhal kar jana."
"Haan Ammi," he replied.
As he stepped out of the house, the door closed softly behind him.
Rimsha stood still for a moment, listening to his footsteps fade.
Then she turned back to the kitchen.
---
Scene Eight
The House Continues
Kulsoom aunty returned to her room, carrying her tea with her.
Rimsha fed Fatima patiently, wiping her mouth gently.
Afterward, she washed dishes, swept the floor, folded laundry.
Fatima followed her everywhere, dragging a small toy, babbling happily.
"Mama… mama…"
"Yes beta," Rimsha replied every time.
The house felt quieter—but not empty.
Grief still lived there.
But so did life.
---
Scene Nine
Midday – A Woman Holds the Fort
By late morning, Rimsha had bathed Fatima, dressed her, and laid her down for a nap.
She sat beside the crib for a moment, watching her daughter sleep.
Her thoughts drifted briefly—to Imran, standing inside Amana Superstore, trying to be strong.
"To Abbu," she whispered.
Then she stood up.
There was work to do.
Meals to prepare.
Lives to carry forward.
---
Closing Scene
Routine as Resistance
By evening, the house smelled faintly of cooked lentils and fresh roti.
Rimsha stood at the stove, stirring slowly.
Outside, Islamabad moved on—cars honked, people hurried, shops opened and closed.
Inside this house, grief had not vanished.
But it no longer ruled.
A week had passed.
Imran had returned to work.
Breakfast had been eaten together.
A child had laughed.
And in these small, ordinary moments, life had quietly, stubbornly reclaimed its place.
---
End of Chapter