"Grandpa, should we go to Uncle Walid's store?" Hannah asked, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder.
Grandpa smiled. "He has the best art supplies, doesn't he?"
Hannah gave a small nod. "Yes."
Maybe… just maybe, if I go back to the things I used to love, I might find myself again, she thought silently. Even something simple like buying art supplies from the same store...
As they stepped into the little shop with its wooden door and familiar chime, Hannah whispered, "Peace be upon you, Uncle Walid."
"Peace be upon both of you!" Uncle Walid replied warmly, adjusting his round glasses as he looked up. A bright smile stretched across his wrinkled face. His joy was evident when he saw his old friend.
"Hey! Where have you been? You forgot your old friend, didn't you?" Uncle Walid said in a soft, playful tone.
"Oh, look who's talking!" Grandpa laughed, walking forward and giving him a friendly pat on the back. "We walked all the way here ourselves. You didn't even care to ask how your friend was!"
They both laughed, and Uncle Walid motioned toward the chairs near the counter. "So, tell me, how can I help?"
"Our girl here wants to buy some brushes and other things…" Grandpa said as he settled onto one of the chairs.
Hannah, meanwhile, had already begun exploring.
Hannah, meanwhile, had already begun exploring. Her eyes lit up as she walked between the shelves. There were thin paintbrushes, fan brushes, and wide flat brushes lined up neatly in glass jars. Tiny watercolor pans in pastel shades, large sketchbooks with textured covers, sets of acrylics, oil paints in tubes like tiny candies, and racks of charcoal pencils—all of it made her heart beat faster.
She reached out, gently picking a soft round brush, feeling the bristles with her fingers. It reminded her of the brushes her mother once used. Her lips parted slightly, a small smile forming.
"She's just like her mother when it comes to painting," Grandpa said proudly, watching her.
"That's wonderful," Uncle Walid said, his voice kind. "Make your mother proud, child. Walk in her light."
Uncle Walid looked just the same—white beard neatly trimmed, thin frame, wearing a pale blue kurta pajama. His glasses always slipped down his nose a little. Grandpa, too, wore his usual off-white kurta pajama, his silver hair combed back, his walking stick leaning against the chair.
Hannah picked up a small canvas pad, some colored markers, and a pack of watercolors. She moved slowly, taking her time, admiring everything like it was a treasure. She placed each item gently into the shopping basket hanging on her arm.
Hannah moved slowly along the next shelf, her eyes full of wonder. It felt like she had stepped into a dream made of colors and memories.
She spotted brand-new erasers—shaped like clouds, stars, and tiny animals. A smile appeared on her face as she picked them up one by one. Then came the colorful sharpeners—some looked like fruits, others like little cartoon characters. She gently dropped a few into her basket.
"These will be perfect for my little nieces and nephews," she whispered to herself, her heart soft and thoughtful.
On the next shelf, she found drawing books—some had bright covers with animals, some were plain and thick with smooth pages. She flipped through them slowly, her fingers brushing the paper like it was something precious. She took two… then three more.
From behind, Grandpa called out in a playful voice, "My dear, don't empty the whole shop!"
Hannah laughed under her breath, but her eyes were still shining. She walked further and found diaries—small ones with soft covers, some with tiny locks, others with beautiful designs. One had a sunflower. Another had the moon on a dark blue sky. She touched them gently.
"I'll write something beautiful in you," she whispered, picking up the blue one.
She added a few to her basket, carefully placing each item. She wasn't rushing. She wasn't shopping like people normally do. She was choosing with her heart—calm, quiet, and full of feeling.
In that small, simple shop—surrounded by paintbrushes, papers, and soft colors—Hannah wasn't just buying things.
She was finding herself again.
One soft diary, one colored pencil at a time.
**************************************************
The room was still, the atmosphere serious but charged with quiet curiosity. The employee's presentation was going smoothly—until a voice cut in.
Mr. Yusuf leaned slightly forward in his chair. His tone was sharp, his words clear.
"You really think international-level trading is that easy?"
The employee, caught off guard, paused for a moment. His hand stopped mid-air with the remote. His lips parted, searching for the right words.
"Sir, actually… it's not easy. But it's not impossible either," he said, his voice a little unsure now. "This will be our first step towards international trade. It will benefit the company greatly."
Yusuf uncle didn't wait. His next words came faster, a little heavier.
"And do you even know how much risk is involved? Fifteen percent profit! And what about taxes? You didn't even mention them!"
The employee looked down at the laptop screen, struggling. His silence filled the room like a heavy cloud.
"Right now, due to the country's economic crisis, taxes are sky-high," Yusuf uncle continued. "With only fifteen percent margin, where will the real profit come from?"
There was silence again.
Everyone could feel the weight in the air. The employee had no reply.
Then a calm, deep voice broke through.
"I liked your idea," Haris said.
All eyes turned to him.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
"In fact, I find international trading… impressive. We should expand this empire."
Haris sat straight, his black coat crisp and clean, the white shirt underneath glowing softly in the lights. His expensive oud fragrance still lingered in the room, rich and dignified. He spoke with clarity—calm, but firm.
His eyes didn't shift. His words felt final.
Mr. Yusuf clenched his jaw slightly, his face still but tight. He didn't say anything, but something in his eyes gave away his frustration. He didn't like this—Haris's quiet confidence, his natural command. It bothered him. Deeply.
Saladin stood up from the head of the table.
"We'll continue this meeting later," he said, his tone firm. "Meeting dismissed."
Chairs pushed back softly, files closed, screens went black. But something in the room had changed.
Everyone left with one thought in their minds.
Haris.
The way he handled the moment, his presence, his words—it stayed with them. It wasn't loud. It wasn't flashy. But it was strong.
To most, he now looked like someone meant for the Board of Directors.
But not to everyone.
Two of his uncles, including Mr. Yusuf, watched him from the corner of their eyes. Jealousy sat quietly behind their stares.
Because they wanted that chair for themselves.
And Saladin—Haris's father, the one who currently owned the company—
He had always said…
The youngest Board of Director would either be Haroon or Haris.
**************************************************
The sun was fierce above, hanging like fire in the blue sky. Karachi's roads shimmered in the heat, and the breeze felt like warm air from a dryer.
Hannah and Grandpa stepped out of Walid Uncle's store, each carrying a bag full of art supplies. Hannah's eyes were still dancing with joy—paintbrushes, sketchbooks, erasers, little diaries… she had picked everything with love, some even for her nieces and nephews.
Grandpa wiped the sweat off his forehead with his white handkerchief. His kurta was sticking slightly to his back, but he smiled anyway.
"Baba, can we have ice cream?" Hannah asked, looking up at him with hopeful eyes.
Grandpa chuckled, "I was about to ask you the same."
A few steps down the street, they stopped by a small ice cream cart. It was old, but the man behind it smiled like he'd known them forever.
"One kulfa cone and one mango, please," Grandpa ordered.
They sat on a nearby bench under the shade of a dusty tree, the sound of traffic humming in the background. Hannah took a bite of her cone and closed her eyes.
"Too good," she said with a soft laugh, "the weather's burning, but this feels like heaven."
Grandpa nodded, taking a slow lick of his own. "Sometimes, all a day needs is cold ice cream and good company."
She leaned her head lightly on his shoulder. "Thanks for taking me, Grandpa. It felt like… something I used to love came back."
He smiled, his eyes soft with pride. "It's still there, beta. Maybe it just needed a little push… and a few new paintbrushes."
They sat quietly for a while, watching the busy Karachi streets and sharing small smiles between bites. The heat didn't feel so harsh anymore.
Not when there was art in their bags, laughter in their hearts, and ice cream melting between their fingers.
**************************************************
At Home:
The room was silent except for the soft scratch of the brush against canvas.
Hannah sat cross-legged on the floor, sleeves rolled up, her eyes full of thought. A single lamp beside her cast a warm glow, and the rest of the room seemed to disappear into quiet shadows.
She dipped her brush in green.
Safira's idea rang fresh in her heart:
A green umbrella… protecting the people of all provinces. The thunderstorm behind them, and still, they stand together.
Slowly, carefully, she painted the storm first. Dark clouds rolling like angry waves across the sky. Lightning streaked in silver behind them, a sign of chaos, fear, disaster.
Then, in the center of it all—a large green umbrella. It stretched wide across the canvas, worn at the edges, with a small tear near the corner—but strong.
Underneath it, she painted five figures. Different postures. Different clothes. Each one carrying the spirit of a province—Sindh, Punjab, Balochistan, KPK, and Gilgit-Baltistan.
They stood close, shoulder to shoulder, their eyes not looking at the storm… but at the light breaking behind it.
Hannah added subtle white strokes on the umbrella, the shape of a crescent and a star.
Not direct. Not loud.
Just enough for those who look closely.
It was more than a painting.
It was a quiet prayer. A silent promise. A shield made of hope.
She sat back, breathing out slowly. A tiny smile tugged at her lips.
For the first time in a long while, her painting didn't just express her feelings—it gave voice to a nation.