It was unbelievable for him—that his mother, who had died when he was a child, was actually alive and calling out to him…
At first, he thought someone was playing a cruel joke on him. How could someone who had died just suddenly come back to life? But then, he gathered his senses.
"What proof do you have that you're actually my mother?" he asked in a cold tone, though his heart was pounding.
"Just come see me once…" came the pleading voice of the woman on the other end—it had that same familiar tone. Her voice sounded tearful… or maybe it was just his imagination.
Her voice, the way she spoke—it all resembled his mother's. His heart told him it was her. But his mind refused to believe it.
"Fine then. If you're really who you say you are, come to the park you used to take us to." Without waiting for a reply, he ended the call.
Now, pacing restlessly in the lounge, he ran a hand through his hair.
He glanced at the wall clock, then made up his mind. Grabbing the keys to the flat and his bike from the table, he locked the door and left.
He and Derek had rented this flat together during university.
Jahan wanted to be financially independent—he didn't want to be under his father's shadow anymore. After all, in his father's eyes, he was just a stubborn, useless child—just like his mother, who according to them, had had a relationship with another man despite being married.
There was only one person in that house who genuinely cared for him—Shazia Begum. She supported him and sometimes even stood up to Mr. Jafar for his sake.
He started his bike and took the road that led to the park his mother used to take him and his sister to…
Twenty-five minutes later, he was there. His face remained neutral, appearing to others as just another man out for a walk in the park—but inside, a storm was raging.
As he walked the track, his eyes scanned the surroundings.
Mothers were everywhere with their children, and the sight stirred old memories. That's why he had stopped coming here. The last time he came with his sister was right here… and the pain in his heart pierced deeper.
As he walked ahead, his gaze fell forward—and his steps came to a halt. Not just his steps, even his heartbeat paused for a moment.
Right there, seated ahead—was his mother. Her head was covered, bowed low. She was probably crying. He could tell from her movements.
He started walking toward her with quiet, hesitant steps—when suddenly, a man came and sat beside her. She clutched his shoulder and leaned into him for comfort… she embraced him.
Seeing that, Jahan felt like he was burning alive.
His father's venomous words echoed in his ears, the ones often spoken about his mother:
("I don't even want that woman's name mentioned in this house…")
("God knows how many men she was fooling around with behind my back…")
("These foreign women are all the same. No character, just chasing after any rich or handsome man they see…")
And today, for the first time, Jahan believed every word of it.
He clenched his fists tightly, his bloodshot eyes fixed on the hand of his mother, which was now in the grip of another man.
As he took deep breaths, trying to contain the fire within, he walked up to them and stood before them with folded arms. His eyes locked on her hand held by that man.
Seeing him, the man stood up, and so did his mother. She tried to free her hand from the man's and stepped forward to embrace him—but he stepped back and said coldly:
"Don't come near me, lady."
The unfamiliar tone made her eyes well up again.
"Jahan, my son… are you upset with your mother?" she said in that same defeated tone she used to speak in when he was little and upset.
"No… just regretting that you're alive." His gaze was filled with disgust as he stared at her.
He saw her face lose all color after hearing that. It clearly hurt her.
But that pain gave him a strange sense of peace.
He was restless—so how could those who caused it be at ease?
"So much hate…? Why?" she asked, placing a hand over her heart as if the words had physically hurt her.
"Drop the act. Just tell me why you're here," Jahan said, hands in his pockets, looking away with boredom.
His words made her tears fall faster.
"This isn't an act… I came to see my children," she said, struggling to hold back her sobs.
"Oh let me guess, tired of playing with men's hearts? That's why you had to end your death drama? Suddenly remembered, 'Oh right, I have kids too…'" he said with a sarcastic smile, turning toward the man standing with her.
"Looks like… you're just her next distraction—"
Before he could finish, the man who had been silently enduring the conversation exploded.
"JUST SHUT UP! She's my wife!" he barked. His face was red with rage and humiliation.
Meanwhile, his mother froze upon hearing those words.
"Oh. Must be rich, right? That's why you married her," Jahan hissed again, spitting more venom.
"Get lost!" the man roared, barely restraining his anger.
"I don't enjoy talking to such lowly people either," Jahan muttered and turned to leave. The man started to step toward him, but his mother quickly held his arm and shook her head to stop him.
"He doesn't know anything…" she said, barely holding back tears. Her gesture forced the man to stay still.
"And I don't want to know anything," Jahan said and began to walk away when her voice stopped him again.
"Fine… but at least tell me this—how is Maryam?" There was pleading in her voice.
Her words froze his steps. His sister's face flashed before his eyes, but he quickly composed himself. When he spoke again, his voice was as bitter as ever:
"Far away—where no one comes back from. In fact, she's lucky… at least she was spared from seeing this face and hearing this voice." He didn't stop. He walked away.
"Was my mistake really so unforgivable…?" Those were the last words he heard before disappearing from view.
And then he returned home
_________________________
---
He, who had been lost in the past along with the setting sun…
was pulled back to the present by someone's soft "haaye."
He turned his neck to the right and looked at the two girls with clear annoyance in his eyes—
the same girls who had disturbed his thoughts.
Even though they sensed his displeasure, they shamelessly stood there, now asking him for a selfie.
But was Jaan really seeing or hearing them?
His eyes were fixed beyond them—on Emma.
The fading sunlight was falling gently across her face.
She wore a cap over her loose hair, and the strands kept brushing against her face like a kiss.
Every time she pushed them back, they would fall forward again.
Jaan felt a strange jealousy toward those rebellious strands.
His heart whispered a desire—to brush those locks away from her face and place a kiss there himself.
Startled by this thought, he quickly and with great difficulty looked away from her face.
He noticed the girls still staring at him with wide grins, convinced he had been looking at them.
"Ek taraf ho jaayein…" (Move aside…)
One of them immediately obeyed, stepping aside and opening her front camera, posing eagerly as she waited for him.
But their faces dropped when Jaan walked right past them, heading straight to the driver's side of the car.
He opened the door and sat inside.
Before sitting, his eyes involuntarily searched once more for Emma—
But she was gone.
The spot where she had stood was now empty.
Jaan felt like he, too, was just as empty.
---
Emma, on the other hand, had noticed Jaan's constant gaze.
It made her uncomfortable.
So she took Hoor and Olivia and walked away from there.
They roamed around quite a bit more and eventually had dinner before returning.
Olivia dropped them off again.
"Kal kitne baje ki flight hai…?" (What time is the flight tomorrow?)
As Hoor was about to get out, Emma suddenly realized she hadn't asked.
"Teen baje hai dopehar ke…" (It's at 3 in the afternoon…)
Hoor gave the time, said her goodbyes once more, and went inside.
Olivia left after that.
Emma had asked her to come inside, but she refused, saying she had an important errand to run.
Emma opened the door and turned on the light.
The house felt so empty… her heart started to feel anxious.
She turned the light off again and sat on the same sofa where Izabella used to wait for her.
Her eyes welled up again.
It still didn't feel real to her—that Izabella was no more.
She cried herself to sleep, not knowing when slumber took over.
---
Someone gently unlocked the door with a key, carefully, making as little noise as possible.
A person stepped inside quietly and knelt beside the sofa where Emma was sleeping,
gazing at her face—still wet with tears.
After a moment, the person stood up and went inside to fetch a blanket.
They returned and carefully draped it over her.
Emma stirred slightly at the touch, and the person held their breath—
remaining perfectly still where they stood.
Emma's forehead creased briefly… then relaxed again into peaceful sleep.
The person pulled a folded piece of paper from their pocket and placed it on the table next to her bag.
Their heart ached to hug her before leaving—
But no, that wouldn't be appropriate.
Suppressing the longing, that person left as silently as he had entered.
------------------------------
"Aahil, I've been watching you for days now. You go out every day around this time… there are only a few days left until the wedding, and yet you're roaming around like it's someone else's wedding… you haven't even helped with a single thing," Daadi said, spotting Aahil as he walked past the lounge, all dressed up and ready to leave with Sharjeel again.
Daadi had been watching his careless behavior for days with patience, but seeing him again in a white t-shirt and black pants, clearly going out again, made her finally lose her temper.
Hearing the disapproval in her voice, Aahil instantly became alert. Running a hand through his hair, he walked over and sat on the sofa beside her.
"There was some work… that's why I had to go. But if you say so, I won't go. How could I go against your word?" he said, placing his head in her lap.
"My son, I don't mind you working, but this negligence toward your wedding preparations… I don't like it at all." She stroked his thick hair affectionately as she tried to explain.
Her gentle touch filled him with a deep sense of peace. Only he knew how much he had missed her in those past three years.
"Okay… I'll do whatever you say now," he said, closing his eyes contentedly.
"Look at your face… all worn out from overworking," she said, despite him looking perfectly healthy.
Aahil didn't respond to that; he just lay there quietly with his eyes closed.
"Mehak, bring some fresh juice for Aahil," Daadi said, spotting her passing by.
Mehak, who was in the mood to refuse, immediately turned to go inside when she heard Aahil's name.
Aahil's phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket and checked the screen while still lying in Daadi's lap.
It was a call from Sharjeel, so he had to get up.
"I'll just take this call," he told Daadi before walking out into the lawn and sitting down on one of the cane chairs to answer.
"Baba…" The voice on the other end made a smile spread across his serious face.
"Yes, my life?" He crossed one leg over the other, leaned back against the chair, and sat comfortably.
The breeze in the lawn was soothing, and since no one else was around, he could talk freely.
"Baba, when will you come?" That innocent question felt like a dagger to Aahil's heart. Daadi had made it clear—if he wanted to stay in this haveli and be with Hoor, he would have to leave Dayaan behind.
But he was her grandson too—he had already planned everything.
"Where's Uncle Sharjeel?" He didn't have an answer for Dayaan's question, so he deflected it.
"Yes, speak," Sharjeel's voice came through—he must've been on speaker.
"I can't make it now. You go alone and try to find that girl somehow," Aahil said, rubbing his temple and closing his eyes.
"Alright, don't stress. I'll manage. You just focus on your wedding prep…" Sharjeel felt sorry for his friend, who despite doing nothing wrong, had been blamed for everything.
Sharjeel knew Aahil didn't show it, but inside, he had been broken ever since that incident.
"Okay, I'm hanging up now… and don't forget to come to the wedding." He ended the call quickly as he saw Mehak approaching.
A bitter smile curved his lips at the mention of the wedding. His sharp black eyes glinted with fire. If Sharjeel had been there, he would've noticed. Maybe even tried to talk some sense into him.
He hung up and stared at the screen. His mind was racing with thoughts.
Mehak came out carrying two cups of tea. She placed one on the table and took the chair beside him.
"How are you?" she asked when she saw him engrossed in his phone. She had to initiate the conversation herself.
Aahil looked up at her. She was wearing a black fitted short shirt with capris. Her hair was down, her face was fully made up, and her lips were painted a deep color. She was undeniably beautiful—so much so that anyone would find it hard to look away.
But the man sitting there was Aahil.
Seeing her made his mood sour. His forehead creased. He despised women who wore excessive makeup and tried to attract attention from men—offering themselves like a visual feast for anyone who passed by.
He picked up his cup of tea and walked back inside.
"How long will you keep running?" Mehak smiled playfully behind him and sipped her tea.
Only time would tell who was really going to run… Who was going to lose… Because no one plays the game better than time itself.
_____________________________
The continuous ringing of the phone was disturbing her sleep. A frown formed on her forehead as, with her eyes still closed, she reached out across the table, searching for her phone.
She grabbed the phone and squinted one eye open to see the caller's profile.
The call had already stopped.
"Hoor..." Seeing the name, she closed her eyes again—but a thought struck her, and she suddenly opened them wide and checked the time.
It was 1:42 AM, and Hoor's flight was at three.
Cursing herself, she jumped up from the sofa and headed toward her room. She had very little time, so she quickly freshened up and changed. She dried her hair as much as she could with a dryer, threw a stole around her neck, put on joggers, and rushed out.
After locking the door, she realized she had left her bag and phone on the table.
Slapping her forehead, she quickly reopened the door—thankfully, the keys were with her. She grabbed the bag and phone when she noticed a paper had fallen to the floor. She picked it up and flipped it around. Something was written inside. There wasn't time to read it, so she shoved it into her bag, locked the door again, and ran out.
Only she knew how many buses she had to change to get there.
Standing outside the airport, she caught her breath and checked the time—it was only two o'clock.
Straightening up, she tucked the strands of hair behind her ears that kept falling on her face and went inside.
She was still looking around for Hoor when someone suddenly yanked her hair.
Turning around, she saw a young boy who had been watching her for quite a while. He was holding a packet of chips.
Emma knew him—he was Hoor's brother, Ali.
"Honestly, being a younger brother is a curse. Actually, being the youngest in the house is a curse. Everyone just treats you like a servant. Go do this. Go fetch that. And if you say no, you'll get a 'special' helping of Mom's chapli kebabs," he ranted. Hoor must have sent him to wait for her. Having to wait too long had clearly spoiled his mood, so he went on with his monologue.
In response, Emma took the chips packet from his hand and began eating.
Ali's mouth fell open—broad daylight robbery right in front of his eyes. A poor, innocent child had been looted.
"Emma Api… that's not very nice," Ali complained, pouting.
"First take me to Hoor. Then we'll talk about what's nice and what's not," Emma didn't give his words any weight.
Ali didn't like being dismissed, so he stood in front of her with his arms folded.
Emma looked at him in surprise and stopped munching on the chips.
"What's the matter? Let's go already," she said.
Ali shook his head in refusal.
"Why not? What's the problem?" she asked, placing one hand on her hip, ready for battle.
Instead of answering, Ali snatched his chips packet back from her hand and ran off.
"Hey!" Emma shouted and ran after him—but her head slammed straight into someone's chest.
Emma saw stars dancing around her.
Her bag and phone fell from her hands.
She held her head and began to back away from the person, but she stumbled. That same person caught her by the arms and steadied her.
As her senses returned, Emma recognized a very familiar scent surrounding her. She moved her hand from her forehead and, the first thing she saw—was his shoes. Black shoes. Her gaze traveled upward—black pants, white shirt, black coat—and then finally the face. She frowned.
It was Jaan, who was now closely examining her.
He still had her arm in his grip.
"Seems like your brakes are broken… both in the brain and the feet," Jaan said, looking at her with sarcastic eyes.
His gaze had already taken in every detail of her appearance—thick blue sweater, blue pants. In that moment, Jaan felt a strange closeness to her.
Emma flushed with irritation at his remark.
She jerked her arm free from his grip and, pointing a finger at him, snapped, "My brain and my feet are perfectly fine! You're the one who needs checking."
Jaan stood calmly, arms folded across his chest, as if her anger meant nothing to him.
As soon as she finished, he closed the two-step distance between them, and his piercing blue eyes locked with her brown ones, like she was being trapped in an ocean of blue.
"Do you want my attention? Is that why you're dragging this conversation?" Jaan said in a deep, intense voice.
Emma felt like he was casting some kind of spell around her—but she quickly gathered herself.
His words confused her. Why had she drag into the conversation? Her confusion was clear in her eyes, and Jaan noticed it closely.
"Anyway, in five days you'll be with me," Jaan said, tucking a loose strand of her hair behind her ear.
Emma stepped back in alarm. His nearness always terrified her. Every time he came close, her heart would pound wildly. Her tongue would stick to the roof of her mouth. Jaan probably knew this, which is why he kept putting her through these little trials.
"You shouldn't be so delusional," Emma said, trying to compose herself, then bent to pick up her phone and bag.
She was dismayed to see the phone screen cracked. That phone was precious—it had been a birthday gift from her dad.
"Emma!" Hoor, who had come looking for her, called out after spotting her talking to a handsome guy. She called out a few times, but when Emma didn't respond, she had to come over.
Emma quickly turned toward Hoor's voice, gave one last sharp glare at Jaan, and went toward her friend.
Jaan stood watching her go. He knew she was here to see her friend off. Every move of hers had his attention.
He turned to leave when something crinkled under his foot. It was a paper—probably something that had fallen from Emma's bag.
He bent down, picked it up, and unfolded it to read.
As he read, a shadow fell over his face.
His blue eyes turned red with anger.
Clenching his jaw, he folded the paper and slipped it into the pocket of his pants.
Now, his thoughtful gaze was fixed in the direction Emma and Hoor had gone.
A lot was going on in his mind.
He left the airport and walked to his car.
He had only come here at Shazia Begum's insistence to see Hanaan off—who was being sent away for work by his father
________________________
Far away from the city, there stood an ordinary-looking house in a desolate area.
Inside, it was just a simple house with three rooms and a kitchen.
But if one were to use a secret passage leading downward, they'd find themselves in a massive, soundproof hall-like room underground.
It would be more accurate to call it a torture cell.
Various kinds of instruments were present there.
On one side, there was a prison-like enclosure where several people were locked up. They were holding their breaths — so terrified that they clung to each other. Some had even shut their eyes and plugged their ears with their fingers.
A towering, muscular man stood near their cell…
But they weren't afraid of him.
They were horrified by the scene unfolding in front of them.
Their breaths were caught in their chests.
On a stretcher lay a man tied up. His fingernails were missing. Deep cuts marred his body. He was screaming continuously in pain… because the man standing beside him was slowly inserting a thin needle into his eye… and enjoying the agony.
Those tortured screams were ecstasy for him.
The man couldn't even move his head — his forehead was strapped down with a blade-like metal band.
The torturer stopped the needle at one point…
And the man, writhing in agony, managed to speak through clenched teeth:
"D… take whatever you want… just kill me in one blow…"
Upon hearing that, D fixed his dark eyes on the man.
"D takes what he wants. He doesn't need anyone's permission. And as for killing in one blow— where's the fun in that? The real joy is in killing slowly… painfully…"
Now he was pulling the needle out of one eye and pushing it into the other.
The basement echoed with screams.
But D was calm, as if he were stitching a piece of cloth with a needle.
To him, the man's screams were like a melody.
Eventually, the man went silent… perhaps unconscious from the pain.
"Put him away… and bring the one who dared try to kill one of D's men."
At his command, the towering man went inside where the prisoners were locked. As he entered, the prisoners huddled even closer to each other.
He pulled out the man he was instructed to bring — the next victim — and stood silently, awaiting D's next order.
"Strap him onto that one… and yes, light all the candles and turn off the lights."
D sat calmly on a chair not far from the stretcher, wiping his bloodstained hands with a cloth.
The iron stretcher had a mesh rack above it filled with candles. As the victim was strapped down, he realized what was about to happen.
D's intent knocked the breath out of him.
He was going to burn him — drop by drop.
He understood it all now.
"D… please forgive me… please…" The man began to struggle.
His eyes fixated on the candles above him.
"You tried to burn my man alive with petrol. You like playing with fire? Then why the fear now?"
D calmly rolled down his sleeves as he spoke.
"D… ahh… please…"
The wax had started to melt… and it was dripping onto him.
The hall lights were off — darkness all around, except for that one area lit by the flickering candles.
And beneath them — the man.
D sat with a finger pressed to his lips, watching his favorite scene unfold.
His dark, mysterious eyes were glowing.
The towering man walked over to him with a phone.
D took the phone and gestured for him to leave. He understood and walked away immediately.
The screen displayed a client ID: 0109.
D held the phone to his ear.
"You remember my terms, don't you?" he said calmly after hearing the other side. His calm was unnerving.
"Alright. Send the information and photos."
He ended the call and turned his gaze back to the man who was now going mad with pain — hot wax falling on his body like rain.
A message tone chimed. D opened it.
"Ah, now this will be fun… when the competition is finally equal," he murmured to himself, pleased at what he saw in the picture.
"Jahan… a.k.a. Jan… we'll be meeting here very soon. And that Barbie doll, Emma, also deserves to be here this time."
D laughed darkly, scrolling through the rest of the information.
"I hope this meeting is even more memorable than the last," D said, his eyes still fixed on Jan's picture.
The man tied to the stretcher groaned and opened his mouth in agony—only for molten wax to drip inside.
He screamed more wildly than ever. ________________________
When Emma returned home after meeting Hoor, the first thing she did was head straight to Azibella's room. She opened the cupboard and pulled out the house papers. Her plan was to take a loan on the house and return John's money. Later, she would slowly pay off the loan herself.
But along with the house papers, the documents she found opened her eyes…
"This can't be happening…"
She sat down right there on the floor, stunned, staring at the papers in disbelief.
The documents said that a loan had already been taken on the house… and the due date to return the money was this very month. If not paid, the bank would seize the house.
And how many days were left in this month? Only three…
She quickly searched through the closet, hoping there were more documents, but there was nothing else. She knew once the bank took the house, that would be the end of it.
So many memories were tied to this place…
Dad…
Mom…
Peter, and her childhood…
She still had to find Peter… and now Hoor was gone too… She didn't know what to do in such circumstances. Life… it was as if it had suddenly decided to suffocate her.
Every path was being blocked…
It felt like darkness was closing in from every side…
Just like in her dream—and that red-eyed shadow—it was all these hardships slowly killing her from the inside.
The dream was about her…
She sat there for a while, holding her head, until suddenly, an idea crossed her mind. She stood up, grabbed her phone with the cracked screen, and dialed Hanaan's number.
The number was unreachable…
Once…
Twice…
Same response… She then dialed the home number Hanaan had given her—it probably belonged to his mom.
A woman answered from the other side.
"Are you Hanaan's mom?" Emma asked hesitantly. She had always felt awkward talking to Shazia Begum.
"Yes… who's this?" the woman replied gently.
"I'm Emma… Hanaan's friend. Could I speak with him, please?" Emma requested.
"He's out on a business trip… and won't be reachable for four days…" Another disappointment for her.
"Okay… thanks…" she bit her lip, holding back her tears, and placed the phone aside after ending the call. Her eyes kept shifting between the mobile screen and the papers.
One by one, tears began to roll down her cheeks.
She felt the weight of her loneliness more than ever in that moment.
"Emma, you… can't… lose this house…" she warned herself, her eyes turning red from the strain.
Her head felt like it was splitting from the pain.
She got up and walked to the kitchen. She knew—whatever needed to be done, she would have to do it herself. And for that, she had to take care of herself first.
She made coffee, along with fried eggs and toast.
After finishing the eggs and toast, she began sipping the remaining coffee—her eyes fixed on the cup, but her mind somewhere else…
What her mind was suggesting, her heart was completely against…
And the coffee cup remained in her hand, slowly turning cold.
The mind had won this round… the heart could only sulk.
——————
To be continued…
——————