Safira stood quietly at the door, watching Hannah put the final stroke on her painting. Her brows lifted slightly, her lips parting in awe.
"Perfect," she said softly, stepping into the room.
Hannah turned, surprised. "You like it?" she asked, a gentle smile playing on her lips.
Safira walked over and picked up the glass of juice from Hannah's table, then sat beside her. "I love it," she said honestly. "You know, Hannah... I've never told you this before, but I really admire your style."
Hannah raised an eyebrow, curious.
Safira continued, her tone a little nostalgic. "Remember that painting you did during the December holidays? Instead of doing homework, you were sitting there painting."
Hannah chuckled quietly. "I remember."
"There was a girl sitting calmly in the snow," Safira recalled, her eyes focused on the new painting but clearly lost in memory. "In front of a wolf. A wild one. But she looked… peaceful."
She turned to Hannah with genuine wonder. "When I saw it, I couldn't look away. I kept thinking—how can someone sit so calmly in front of a wild animal like that?"
Hannah let out a soft laugh and looked down at her hands, then up again, her voice quieter. "That's the problem with me. I can't explain my feelings in words. I can't speak them either. So I paint instead."
Safira smiled warmly and gave her shoulder a light, sisterly nudge. "Well, you do it beautifully."
"Baba has gone to the factory?" Hannah asked, glancing up from her sketchpad.
Safira, "Yeah, he left a little while ago."
"What's Mama doing?" Hannah asked without much interest.
"Oh!" Safira paused, then gave an apologetic smile. "I completely forgot to tell you. A professor from the Arts University came today—Ms. Razia Aslan. Mama's showing her some of her paintings."
She stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Mama's calling you too. Come with me."
Hannah shook her head slightly, eyes back on her sketch. "I don't feel like going."
"Come on, please?" Safira nudged her gently. "She's asking for you."
With a reluctant sigh, Hannah stood up, brushing her hands on her shirt. "Fine."
They walked together toward the art room. Just as they reached the hallway, they saw their mother, Fiza Hisham, stepping out with a graceful middle-aged woman dressed in elegant tones—Ms. Razia Aslan.
"Peace unto you, Aunty," both sisters greeted politely.
"Peace unto both of you, my dears," Ms. Razia replied warmly, smiling at them.
"Well…" she started, her tone open and welcoming.
"Yes, my daughters," Fiza said, gesturing toward them. "This is Hannah, and this is Safira."
"Oh, it's lovely to meet you both," Razia said, genuinely pleased.
Fiza leaned toward Hannah and whispered, "Beta, sit with Aunty. I'll just get some snacks."
Hannah gave a soft nod, and they all moved into the lounge. The room had cozy, inviting sofas covered in soft fabric and pastel cushions. As they sat, a light aroma of kehwa filled the space. A tray with cups arrived, and everyone took one.
"So, are you both studying?" Ms. Razia asked kindly, looking between the two.
"Not exactly," Hannah replied, gently setting down her cup. "I graduated this year. Right now, I'm just focusing on my paintings."
"You paint too?" Razia asked, a little surprised.
Hannah nodded silently.
"Well, clearly, painting runs in your blood. That's wonderful," Razia smiled, genuinely impressed.
Hannah gave a shy, humble smile. "Hmm, maybe it does."
Razia then turned to Safira. "And what about you, dear?"
"I'm completely free right now," Safira said casually, shrugging a little.
Hannah laughed lightly. "She means she just graduated from college. She's applying to different universities for higher studies."
"Oh, then you should try for our university," Razia said with enthusiasm. She began praising the campus, the faculty, and the student life with glowing words.
Safira listened quietly, then nodded with a polite but distant smile. "yes, sure."
Hannah caught the tone and suppressed another chuckle.
**************************************************
There was a soft knock at the door.
"Please come to the dining hall," the housemaid called politely.
Everyone stood up from the lounge and slowly walked to the dining hall. As they stepped in, their eyes lit up.
"Oh wow, this looks so nice," Razia said with a smile.
The dining hall was bright and clean. Sunlight came through the light curtains, and a cool breeze moved the air. The table was set beautifully with kebabs, samosas, and chicken sandwiches. A fresh smell of chai filled the room.
"Mama always sets everything like this," Safira whispered proudly to Razia.
Everyone sat down, picking their favorite snacks. Light laughter filled the room as they started eating.
"This is really tasty, Fiza," Razia said while holding a warm samosa. "You made so much effort."
"Oh no, it's just something simple," Fiza laughed gently. "But thank you."
They ate slowly, enjoying the food and the company. The conversation turned toward painting.
"Fiza," Razia said, setting down her cup, "I wanted to ask… what gives you ideas for painting?"
Fiza smiled and thought for a moment. "Not one thing," she said, "but I really love nature. That's why we go on vacations two times a year." She chuckled. "When I see trees, sky, or the sea… new painting ideas come into my mind."
She took a sip of tea and continued softly, "And when I'm feeling low or sad… painting is the only thing that helps me feel better."
Hannah stayed quiet, listening carefully.
Those two things—nature and feelings—also gave her the most peace. That's why she loved the beach.
The soft sound of waves… the sky touching the water… the wind in her hair—it all made her feel calm. The beach didn't talk, but it understood. It gave her the same quiet feeling her heart searched for.
"That's really lovely," Razia said to Fiza. "Your paintings feel peaceful."
Fiza smiled gently. Hannah kept her eyes down, hiding the small smile that had come to her lips.
**************************************************
Inside Haris's Office
Haris sat at his desk, eyes scanning a thick stack of files. The room was quiet except for the soft ticking of the clock.
Knock knock.
"Come in," Haris said without looking up.
The young manager stepped inside, holding a file.
"Sir, these were sent by Sir Saladin," he said politely, placing them on the table.
Haris gave a short nod. "Hmm."
He closed one file, then looked up at the boy for the first time.
"Where's your home?" Haris asked suddenly.
The manager froze, eyes widening in confusion. "S–Sir?"
"I said... where is your home?" Haris repeated calmly.
The manager's lips trembled. For a moment, he just stood there—silent, stunned.
"Sir," he said finally, voice shaking, "you've done so much for me... You pulled me out of hell. I owe you my whole life. I can work for you forever."
Haris stood up slowly and walked to the window, hands in his pockets. "Give your address to the driver. He'll drop you off."
The boy's legs gave way beneath him. He fell to his knees on the floor, eyes filled with tears.
"Sir... thank you! May God bless you. May every door open for you! May peace follow you wherever you go!"
Haris turned slightly, his voice steady and casual. "I didn't do you a favour."
In Haris's heart, one thing was clear:
Freedom is every human's birthright.