Hazel's POV -
Lucknow.
The air was different here.
Thicker. Warmer. Carrying something that London never could - the particular scent of this city that had raised me. Marigolds and dust and something that could only be described as home.
The rickshaw turned into the familiar lane.
And something inside my chest cracked open quietly.
Nine months.
Nine months since I had last stood on this street. Since I had last heard the azaan from that corner mosque. Since I had last seen that old neem tree still standing like it owned the neighbourhood.
Everything was exactly the same.
And yet I was not.
I stood at the gate for a moment longer than necessary.
Suitcase beside me.
Heart somewhere between two cities.
London. Lucknow.
Haris. Ammi.
I exhaled slowly.
Then I pressed the doorbell.
One ring.
Silence.
Then the sound of familiar footsteps.
Quick. Urgent. Like someone who had been waiting since morning.
The door opened.
And there she was.
Ammi.
Rafiya Ahmed stood in the doorway in her simple cotton suit, hair pinned back, eyes already glistening before she had even fully registered my face.
For one suspended second - neither of us moved.
Then she stepped forward.
And I stepped into her.
Her arms came around me completely - the way only a mother's arms can, like they were designed specifically for this one person, this one moment.
I buried my face into her shoulder.
And everything I had been holding since London -
The airport goodbye.
The flight.
The empty seat beside me.
Haris's hoodie folded in my suitcase.
His letter I had already read four times -
All of it.
Released.
Quietly.
Into her shoulder.
"Ammi," I whispered.
Just that.
Just her name.
She held me tighter.
"Aa gayi meri bachi," she murmured against my hair.
(My child has come home.)
I nodded against her shoulder.
But even as I stood there -
Wrapped in the warmth I had missed for nine months -
Some part of me was still on a London street.
Still in a black shirt.
Still standing beside a man who had said -
"I wasn't living before you."
Ya Allah.
I closed my eyes tighter.
Happy.
Torn.
Both.
✧･ﾟ: 🌺✧･ﾟ:
Rafiya's POV -
had been awake since Fajr.
Everyone in this house knew it.
I had checked the flight tracker four times before breakfast. Made her favourite aloo paratha and kept it covered on the stove. Changed the sheets in her room.
Put fresh flowers on the windowsill the way she always liked.
And then I sat by the window.
Waiting.
The way mothers wait - not with patience exactly, but with a kind of held breath that does not release until they see the face they are waiting for.
When the doorbell rang I was already moving.
I told myself to be calm.
She is a married woman now. Composed yourself Rafiya. She is fine. She has been fine.
I opened the door.
And all of that collapsed immediately.
Because standing there -
With her suitcase beside her and London still in her eyes -
Was my Hazel.
My daughter.
Older somehow.
Quieter somehow.
Carrying something in her expression that had not been there nine months ago - a kind of depth that only comes from loving someone completely and then leaving them behind at an airport.
I knew that look.
I had worn it myself once.
Before she could say anything I stepped forward and pulled her into my arms.
She came instantly.
Like a child.
Like my child.
I felt her exhale against my shoulder - long and slow and releasing - and I held her tighter because I understood.
She was happy to be here.
And she was missing him.
Both. At the same time. With equal force.
That is what love does, bachi.
I did not say that out loud.
I just held her.
And over her shoulder - eyes slightly wet - I looked upward.
Ya Allah. She seems well. She seems loved.
Shukar hai.
When she finally pulled back her eyes were bright.
Not fully crying.
Too much her father's daughter for that.
Faisal Ahmed's daughter.
I smiled softly.
"Come inside," I said gently. "Your parathas are getting cold."
She laughed quietly.
That sound -
That laugh -
Was worth every minute of waiting.
✧･ﾟ: 🌺✧･ﾟ:
Hazel's POV - Her Room
Ammi had insisted on carrying my suitcase upstairs herself.
I had let her.
Some arguments with mothers are not worth winning.
She pushed open the door to my room and stepped aside.
"Rest first," she said firmly. "Food after."
I nodded.
She lingered for just a second - the way mothers do when they want to say something but decide the moment is not right - then pulled the door softly behind her.
And I was alone.
I stood in the doorway.
Just stood there.
Not moving.
My room.
My room.
Same pale yellow walls. Same white curtains moving in the afternoon breeze. Same old wooden desk in the corner where I used to study until midnight. Same shelf of books I had read so many times their spines had cracked.
Everything exactly where I had left it.
Like the room had been holding its breath.
Waiting.
I walked in slowly.
My fingers trailed the desk lightly.
And then -
Without warning -
My eyes fell on the wall beside the window.
The photograph.
Abba.
Faisal Ahmed.
We were together - I must have been seven or eight - standing on his shoes the way I always insisted on doing, arms wrapped around his waist, laughing at something he had said. He was looking down at me with that expression he reserved only for me.
Like I was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
Abba.
My throat tightened.
I had not stood in front of this photograph in nine months.
And grief - real grief - does not warn you.
It simply arrives.
Quietly.
Through a photograph on a pale yellow wall in a room that still smells like your childhood.
I pressed my fingers to my lips.
You would have liked him, Abba.
The thought arrived before I could stop it.
Haris. You would have liked him.
He folds my clothes carefully. He packs my suitcase at midnight. He says things like - "I wasn't living before you" - and means every word.
He would have stood straight in front of you.
He would have looked you in the eye.
He would have been enough.
A tear slipped down my cheek.
Then another.
I did not wipe them immediately.
I let them fall.
For Abba.
For nine months of distance.
For a childhood bedroom that still held every version of me I had ever been.
For a husband who was currently sitting in a London house that felt too quiet without me.
I exhaled.
Long.
Slow.
Ya Allah. Keep him where I cannot.
I wiped my cheeks finally.
Straightened.
Took one last look at the photograph.
"Miss you, Abba," I whispered.
Then I turned toward the washroom.
After Freshening Up...
I came back into the room feeling lighter.
The kind of light that only comes after you have cried properly and washed your face and made wudu and stood for a moment with your forehead on the prayer mat.
I sat on the edge of the bed.
Suitcase in front of me.
I needed my cotton coord set - something comfortable - and then Ammi's parathas were waiting downstairs.
I unzipped the suitcase.
I lifted the top flap.
And stopped.
Completely.
His hoodie.
Black. Worn soft from use. Folded neatly and placed right on top - deliberately, intentionally, first - so that this would be the first thing I saw.
He planned this.
I stared at it for a full second without moving.
Then I reached forward and picked it up.
It unfolded slightly in my hands.
And then -
The scent hit me.
Oud.
His oud.
The one I had told him suited him too much.
Faint. Warm. Unmistakably him.
Like he had folded himself into the fabric.
Like he was saying -
I am here. Even here. I am here.
My eyes burned immediately.
Haris Aziz Khan.
I pressed the hoodie against my face.
Breathed in.
And in that small Lucknow bedroom -
Surrounded by pale yellow walls and childhood memories and Abba's photograph -
I missed my husband with every single part of me.
Completely.
Quietly.
The way love hurts when it is real.
✧･ﾟ: 🌺✧･ﾟ:
Hazel's POV - Dinner
The dining table looked exactly like I remembered.
Same old wooden chairs. Same embroidered tablecloth Ammi had brought years ago. Same small window beside it showing the neighbour's jasmine plant growing uninvited over our wall for as long as I could remember.
Ammi had made everything.
Dal. Sabzi. Fresh rotis still warm from the tawa. And the aloo paratha she had kept covered since morning - slightly crisp at the edges the way I liked.
"Baitho," she said simply.
I sat.
She sat across from me.
Nine months of distance sitting between us.
Then Ammi picked up my plate and started filling it herself.
The way she had done since I was four years old.
"Ammi," I said softly. "I can-"
"Chup."
I went quiet.
We ate in comfortable silence for a while.
Then -
"Tu theek hai?" Ammi asked quietly.
"Haan Ammi. Main theek hoon."
"London kaisa tha?"
"Achha tha."
"Ghar?"
"Sundar hai."
"Aur -" she paused - "woh?"
Woh.
She never said his name directly.
Mothers never do - not at first.
"Haris?" I said.
She nodded once.
I looked at my plate.
And everything from this morning came back quietly -
His forehead against mine.
His hands packing my suitcase at midnight.
His hoodie.
His oud.
His letter still folded in my pocket - against my heart.
"Woh bahut achha hai," I finally said softly.
Simple.
Insufficient.
Completely true.
Ammi was quiet for a long moment.
Then she reached across the table and placed her hand over mine.
"Pata tha," she said gently.
"Kaise?"
She smiled -
"Kyunki tu aa gayi," she said simply.
"Koi zulm mein nahi aata apni maa ke paas," she continued quietly. "Jo ladki apni maa ke paas aati hai woh safe hoti hai. Khush hoti hai." She squeezed my hand. "Aur tu dono hai meri bachi."
My eyes burned immediately.
"Kha le," she said firmly. Eyes slightly bright.
I laughed quietly.
Wiped my eyes.
And picked up my paratha.
We finished dinner the way we had eaten it -
Together.
In warmth.
In all the small languages that mothers and daughters speak that have no words.
Haris POV - Office
Khan Architects, London
The door closed.
And she was gone.
I stood at the entrance for a moment longer than I should have.
Hand still on the door frame.
The faint trace of lavender in the hallway was all that remained.
Five months.
I exhaled slowly.
The house was quiet.
Not peaceful quiet.
Empty quiet.
The kind of quiet that has a shape - and that shape is exactly the size of one person who sits cross-legged on kitchen counters eating strawberries like she owns the place.
I stood there for one more second.
Feeling the last warmth of her hug still pressed into my chest.
"Come back to me," I had whispered.
"I always do," she had replied.
I closed my eyes briefly.
Then I straightened.
Rolled my sleeves.
And turned away from the door.
Work.
Midnight - Khan Architects
I worked through lunch without noticing.
Through the afternoon without fully being present.
Through sunset without looking up.
Through dinner I did not eat.
Until the clock read -
12:14 AM.
The office floor was empty.
Lights dimmed everywhere except my cabin.
My phone lit up.
Hazel 🤍
"Landed safely. Ammi cried. Her parathas were waiting. Miss you already. Sleep, Haris."
Miss you already.
I typed back.
"Good. Sleep on time. Did you find it?"
Three dots appeared immediately.
"...the hoodie?"
"Yes."
A long pause.
"Haris Aziz Khan you are not allowed to make me cry in Lucknow."
Something loosened slightly in my chest.
"Sleep, jaan."
"You sleep too."
"I will."
I would not.
I put the phone down and picked up my pen again.
The cabin door opened without a knock.
"We have a concept called knocking," I said flatly
"Bhai ke liye rules apply nahi hote."
I looked up.
Ijaz.
My younger brother stood in the doorway in a hoodie and joggers - looking like he had absolutely no business being in an office building at midnight - expression sitting somewhere between concern and the particular amusement that younger brothers reserve specifically for causing damage.
Kabir appeared behind him.
Family friend. Inaya's husband. Permanent fixture in my life whether I had agreed or not.
They surveyed me silently for exactly one second.
Then Ijaz tilted his head.
"Bhai. Midnight. Cold coffee. Blueprint. Expressionless face." He paused. "Lagta hai Hazel bhabhi ka jaana zyada gum le aaya."
"Get out."
Neither moved.
Kabir dropped himself into the chair across from my desk like he owned it.
"Bhabhi gaye teen ghante nahi hue," he observed casually.
"I have work."
"You have grief," Ijaz corrected cheerfully.
I set my pen down.
The look that had silenced boardrooms.
Ijaz smiled wider.
Completely unaffected.
Kabir leaned forward with mock solemnity.
"On behalf of everyone who knows you -"
Ijaz cleared his throat.
"Congratulations."
I waited.
"Our cold architect is back."
"Hazel bhabhi humanised you for nine months bhai." Ijaz shook his head admiringly. "And now - expressionless. Cold. Unbothered. The original Haris Aziz Khan has returned."
Kabir nodded gravely
.
"We missed him honestly."
"Ijaz."
"Ji bhai?"
"One more word."
He pressed his lips together.
Lasted four seconds.
"We brought biryani," he said quietly. "From that place bhabhi likes."
Something shifted in my expression.
He placed the bag on the desk.
No more jokes.
"Khana kha lo bhai."
I looked at the bag.
Then at my younger brother.
At Kabir.
"Sit down," I said quietly.
They sat.
The biryani was halfway finished.
Ijaz had found a second spoon from somewhere.
Kabir was leaning back in the chair like he owned it.
The silence had stretched into something almost comfortable - the kind that exists between people who have known each other long enough to not need noise.
Then Ijaz looked up
casually
Too casually.
"Bhai," he began. "Honestly - hand on heart -"
"No."
"You don't even know what I'm asking."
"I know your face," I said flatly. "No."
Ijaz ignored this completely.
"Kabir bhai and I were just saying -" he gestured between them - "how much we love Hazel bhabhi."
Kabir nodded solemnly.
"Genuinely," Kabir confirmed. "She is the best thing that has ever happened to this family. Present company included."
He glanced at me pointedly.
"She tolerates you both," I said. "That is not love. That is patience."
"She makes us chai without being asked," Ijaz countered
"She remembers Inaya's appointments," Kabir added
"She laughs at my jokes," Ijaz said.
"Nobody laughs at your jokes."
"Bhabhi does!"
I returned to my biryani.
But Ijaz was not finished.
He never was.
"Bhai." His voice dropped slightly. "Agar tum shaadi nahi hue hote -"
I looked up slowly.
He continued without flinching -
"- aur mujhe Zara se shaadi nahi hoti. Aur Kabir bhai ko Inaya aapi ke bewa hone ka darr nahi hota -"
Kabir pressed his lips together trying not to smile.
"- toh main tum dono ko kab ka maar deta."
Complete silence.
Then Kabir burst out laughing.
I set down my spoon.
"You would have done nothing," I said calmly.
"I would have tried."
"You would have failed."
"Bhabhi would have avenged me."
I almost smiled.
Almost.
Kabir wiped his eyes still laughing.
"Okay okay -" Ijaz straightened - "but answer the question bhai."
"What question."
"How much do you love Hazel bhabhi." He leaned forward. "Genuinely. Batao."
I looked at him.
Then at Kabir.
Both watching me.
Waiting.
I picked up my spoon again.
"Apparently," I said quietly -
pause -
"I don't love Hazel Ahmed."
The room went completely still.
Ijaz's smile dropped.
Kabir straightened.
Both stared at me like I had said something requiring immediate intervention.
Five seconds.
Ten.
"Bhai-" Ijaz began carefully.
"What are you saying?" Kabir's voice was low. Serious. All jokes gone.
They leaned forward slightly.
"Haris bhai," Kabir said quietly. "What do you mean you don't-"
I looked up.
Met both their eyes.
"Hazel Ahmed -"
I set the spoon down slowly.
"- is not something I love."
Silence so thick it had weight.
Then -
"Hazel Ahmed Haris Aziz Khan ka ishq hai."
My voice was quiet.
Certain.
Like a man stating something that
required no argument. No explanation. No softening.
"Aisa ishq - jo rag rag mein daudta hai."
Nobody spoke.
Ijaz sat back slowly.
That rare moment when younger brothers stop being younger brothers and simply become witnesses to something real.
Kabir looked at the desk.
Jaw slightly tight.
The way men look when something moves them and they refuse to show it.
The midnight office hummed quietly around us.
Then Ijaz exhaled.
"Okay," he said softly.
Just that.
Okay.
Kabir picked up his spoon.
Cleared his throat.
"Finish your biryani bhai," he said quietly.
And we did.
In a silence that held everything -
And needed nothing more.
After biryani
Kabir stood first.
Collected the empty containers quietly.
Ijaz stretched dramatically.
Then both stood in front of my desk.
"Chaltay hain," Ijaz announced.
"Finally."
"But before we go -"
I closed my eyes briefly.
He straightened.
And for once - the humour left his face completely.
"Allah aap dono ki mohabbat mein aur barakah daale," he said quietly.
Kabir nodded beside him.
"Aapka ishq salamat rahe. Aur hamesha badhta rahe."
The midnight office held the words carefully
"Shukriya," I said quietly.
Then -
Ijaz ruined it immediately.
As expected.
"OH - aur ek kaam karo bhai -"
Already backing toward the door.
Eyes dangerously lit up.
"Jaldi se -"
He pointed between himself and Kabir -
"Humein chacha banao!!"
Kabir pointed finger guns at me completely seriously.
"Chacha banao bhai. Jaldi."
"GET OUT."
Both already running.
Actual running.
Their laughter echoing down the empty office floor -
fading -
fading -
gone
Silence returned.
I sat back in my chair.
And for the first time since that door had closed this morning -
I smiled.
Properly.
Quietly.
To absolutely no one.
My Jaan e Haris
I reached for my phone.
Opened my gallery.
Scrolled past work photos. Site visits. Architecture references.
Until -
My Jaan e Haris
I tapped it.
And she was everywhere.
Hazel laughing at something off camera - head thrown back, completely unaware I was watching.
Hazel asleep on the couch with a book still open on her chest.
Hazel in the kitchen stealing from pots before the food was ready.
Hazel in her cream abaya - sunlight catching her hair.
Hazel sitting cross legged on our bed at midnight writing in her journal - lower lip caught between her teeth the way she does when concentrating.
There was one from this morning.
Kitchen counter.
My white shirt.
Strawberry halfway to her lips.
Sunlight turning her brown eyes gold.
Completely unaware.
Completely herself.
I set it as my lock screen.
Put the phone face down.
Looked at the ceiling of my empty midnight office.
Five months.
I exhaled slowly.
And stayed there -
Scrolling through photographs of his wife -
At midnight -
Like someone who had absolutely no intention of sleeping.
✧･ﾟ: 🌺✧･ﾟ:
Haris POV - Tahajjud
London - 3:17 AM
The house was dark.
Quiet in a way it had not been this morning.
This morning it had been her kind of quiet.
The quiet of someone sleeping peacefully in the next room.
This was different.
This was absence.
I changed quietly.
Lay down.
Stared at the ceiling.
Her side of the bed was perfectly made -
Because I had made it this morning before she woke up -
And nobody had been in it since.
I turned away from it.
Closed my eyes.
Sleep, Haris
Her pillow still smelled like lavender.
I sat up.
3:17 AM.
I got up quietly.
Made wuzu in the dark - cold water, familiar motions, the kind of ritual that grounds you when nothing else does.
I unrolled the prayer mat.
Stood.
And in the silence of that London night -
I prayed Tahajjud.
Two rakaat.
Then two more.
Unhurried.
Like a man who had nowhere else to be and nothing more important to do.
Then I sat.
Hands raised.
Eyes closed.
And I made dua.
Not the polished kind.
The raw kind.
The 3 AM kind.
Ya Allah.
She is not here.
And I know that is small - I know there are people carrying things so much heavier.
But Ya Allah -
She is mine to protect.
And right now I cannot.
So I am asking You -
Because You are where she is.
You are in Lucknow the same way You are in London.
Keep her, Ya Allah.
Keep her safe where I cannot reach.
Keep her happy.
Keep her mother well.
Let her sleep without worry.
Let her feel -
I paused.
Exhaled slowly.
Let her feel that distance cannot remove what You tied.
I sat in that silence for a long time after.
Then I blew softly -
Ayatul Kursi -
Into the air.
In the direction of Lucknow.
Because it was all I could do.
And because Allah carries what hands cannot reach.
I rolled the prayer mat quietly.
Went back to bed.
This time -
I slept.
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