Inside Hannah's bedroom, the unfinished painting stared back at her. She had lied to Grandpa, telling him she was sketching something on the canvas, but in reality, she was just lost in her thoughts. How could she possibly paint an umbrella in the center when she had no clue what to do? How was she supposed to finish this? Everything she touched seemed to fall apart.
Oh God.
Should she ask her mom for help? Could she even do that? Was she really incapable of handling something as simple as this on her own? Did she need her mother for everything? Every little decision?
Her mind kept spiraling, tangled with self-doubt. She felt like she'd made a huge mistake. Maybe she should just call her mom... but no, she couldn't. That would mean admitting she couldn't figure things out by herself.
Knock knock.
Someone knocked softly on the door, and without hesitation, Hannah knew exactly who it was.
"Mother."
The door creaked open, and her mom stepped in, a smile lighting up her face. She held her phone in one hand, as if she had something to share.
Hannah's four sisters were all different from her, except for one thing: their golden-brown hair. But only Hannah's eyes were like her mother's—those sparkling brown eyes that caught the light, shining like the crown of pure gold on a king's head. It wasn't just her saying it. Everyone noticed.
"Mother, what is it?" Hannah asked, her voice flat. She knew something big had to be coming because her mom's smile was so wide.
"Guess, Hannah! You'll never believe it!" Her mom's excitement was contagious, but Hannah felt too heavy with her own thoughts to share in it.
"What is it, Mom?" she asked, trying to sound interested, but her mind kept drifting back to the mess she'd made with the painting.
"The University of National Art and Sciences," her mom said, sitting beside her on the couch, "has decided to display my paintings in their library, as a symbol of inspiration and honor for their students."
Hannah's mom squeezed her hand and showed her the phone screen, practically glowing with pride.
"Hannah, are you happy that your mother is so talented?" she asked, laughing as if she expected Hannah to join in.
But Hannah didn't laugh. She didn't feel happy, or sad—just numb. She stayed silent, her thoughts tangled in the mess of her own feelings.
Her mother noticed it—the paleness in Hannah's face, the brightness that once defined her now faded. Her eyebrows twitched ever so slightly, and it was clear she wasn't really listening. She wasn't present. Her thoughts were somewhere else, far from the room they were in.
What could be troubling her?
Hannah kept staring toward the balcony. There was nothing particularly captivating in that direction, no view worthy of such focus. Yet her gaze remained fixed, as if something unseen was holding her there.
Without saying a word, her mother set her phone aside and gently pulled Hannah's head into her lap. The sudden gesture startled Hannah, but she didn't resist. She let herself sink into the comfort of her mother's warmth, feeling her fingers brush slowly through her hair.
"Hannah, did you go to the beach with Grandpa today?"
"Yeah... I did," she replied, her voice dry and expressionless. Then silence fell again.
"Did you have barbecue, like always?"
"Yeah, the same," Hannah answered, giving just enough of a reply to end the conversation. Her tone made it clear she wasn't in the mood to talk.
But her mother didn't give up. She smiled softly, recalling a memory that still lived in her heart.
"You know, when you were little, we took you to the beach once. You were running everywhere—here, there, nonstop. So full of energy and mischief. Your father and I kept calling your name, chasing after you, but you wouldn't stop."
"What did you two do then?" Hannah asked, the question small and quiet, but it sparked a tiny light in her mother's eyes. It was hope—hope that maybe, just maybe, opening up a little might help her daughter feel lighter.
"We made a deal with you. We said if you stayed away from the water, we'd play with you. But if you got too close, Mama and Papa wouldn't join because we were afraid of the waves."
She chuckled at the memory, her fingers still gently stroking Hannah's hair.
"And you—my little brave girl—you'd hug us and say, 'Don't worry. Nothing will happen. I'm here with you.'"
Hearing that, Hannah couldn't help but smile. It started small, almost invisible, but then grew into a soft laugh she didn't know she'd been holding in.
And in that moment, through the laughter, she felt it.
The weight on her chest—the heavy, silent ache—had begun to lift.
white Bungalow,
The dining room of the white bungalow was bathed in soft amber light, reflecting gently off the polished surface of the long wooden table. Buttered broccoli sat steaming in a porcelain dish, while the golden-crusted chicken broast gave off a tempting aroma.
Haris sat at the head of the table in his signature calm. A crisp white thobe draped perfectly over his tall frame, the cuff of his sleeve lifted just enough to reveal a gold watch resting neatly on his wrist. His face, clean-shaven and radiant, had a certain stillness — sharp jawline, defined eyes, but never hurried.
Across from him, Haroon leaned forward, a flicker of excitement in his tone. "I've been working on a new business model — a luxury perfume line. Locally crafted. I already found someone who extracts rose oil near Bahawalpur."
There was a brief silence before Madam Nazi set down her fork, eyes narrowing slightly. "Perfume? Your father owns one of the largest export firms in the country, and you're thinking of bottling scent?"
Samina, the housekeeper, chimed in while clearing the side dishes. "Why not just join your father, Haroon beta? That's a safer path."
Haroon kept his eyes on Haris. "I know what I'm doing. It's not just perfume — it's a brand. Culture, elegance, modern tradition."
Haris wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin and placed it beside his plate. His voice was low but firm.
"No business talk at the dining table."
"But bhai—" Haroon tried again.
Haris raised his eyes slightly, not with anger but clarity. "I'm not shutting your idea down. We'll talk after dinner. Just... not here."
Madam Nazi exchanged a glance with Samina, the silence in the room thickening.
Haroon nodded quietly, and dinner resumed, but the idea lingered — fragrant, unspoken, and persistent — much like the perfumes he dreamed of creating.