29.

The soft light of dawn painted the room in muted hues, the stillness only broken by the gentle murmur of Anam's voice. She sat on the prayer mat, her hands raised in supplication after completing Ziyarat-e-Ashura. Her melodious recitation, rich with devotion, filled the room, carrying with it serenity.

Feras stirred awake, his mind groggy but sharp enough to catch the remnants of her recitation. For a moment, he lay still, listening. Her words, the quiet rhythm of her voice, stirred something within him. His chest tightened... not in discomfort but in a sensation he didn't know how to name.

Last Tahajjud's events flashed in his mind... his curt reaction, the flash of hurt in her eyes, and the guilt he'd ignored then but couldn't avoid now. He shifted slightly, his gaze falling on her.

Anam turned her head slightly, noticing that he was awake. A soft smile graced her lips, bright and genuine, her eyes warm with a kindness that made his heart skip a beat. She looked radiant in the early morning light.

"Good morning," she said softly, her voice still carrying the melody of her prayers.

Feras blinked, momentarily stunned by her smile, before pulling himself together. "Good morning," he murmured, his voice a little rough with sleep. He straightened up, running a hand through his hair as he sat on the bed.

"Why do you always wake up this early?" he said, there was an edge of curiosity in his voice.

Anam replied gently, folding her prayer mat. "It's the best time for Ibadat." She paused, glancing at him shyly. "I prayed for you too."

Feras stilled at her words, his brows drawing together. "For me?"

Anam nodded, standing to place the mat neatly in its spot. "For your success, your happiness, and... your forgiveness. We all make mistakes sometimes," she added hesitantly, her gaze dropping, "but I hope Allah forgives and keeps His blessings on you."

He stared at her, his chest tightening again. She was so selfless, so giving in a way that he didn't know how to respond to. His jaw tightened as he fought the unfamiliar swell of emotion. "You don't have to do that," he said gruffly, though his tone lacked its usual sharpness.

"It's not something I have to do," she said, glancing at him with that same gentle smile. "It's something I want to."

Her words disarmed him completely. For a moment, he didn't know what to say, his usually composed demeanor faltering. He looked away, feeling the heat rise to his neck. "You're always praying," he muttered. "Don't you get tired?"

Anam chuckled softly, the sound light and carefree. "Tired? No. It gives me peace."

Her laughter tugged at something in him, and he found himself glancing at her again. She had moved to the window, opening it slightly to let in the cool morning breeze. Her veil fell off a little from her head, her features serene as the first rays of sunlight kissed her face.

"Anam," he said suddenly, the name unfamiliar on his tongue yet feeling oddly right. She turned to him, surprised that he had called her so directly.

"Jee?" she asked, tilting her head slightly. (Yes?)

He cleared his throat, standing and crossing his arms as if to shield himself from the vulnerability of the moment. "Don't smile at anyone like that."

Anam's eyes widened slightly at his sudden, unexpected statement. For a moment, she wasn't sure if she had heard him right. "Kya?" she asked softly, tilting her head, trying to decipher his expression. (What?)

Feras shifted his weight, his arms still crossed, his gaze firmly fixed on the window instead of her. "I said," he repeated, trying to keep his tone steady, "don't smile at anyone like that."

Her cheeks flushed a deep pink, the meaning behind his words slowly sinking in. A mixture of surprise and warmth bubbled within her, and she couldn't help the small, amused smile that crept onto her lips. "Feras, mujhe to aadat sab ke samne smile karne ki, uper she yeh to sunnat hai" she said gently, her voice holding a playful undertone. (Feras,but I'm used to smiling in front of everyone.)

"Well," he muttered, finally looking at her, his jaw tightening slightly, "change it."

Anam bit her lip to keep from laughing, a soft chuckle escaping despite her best efforts. "Yeh toh mushkil hoga," she teased lightly, her eyes sparkling. "Agar maine muskurana chor diya, toh log pta hai kya sochenge? Anam itni akru kab se hogyi?" (If I stop smiling, do you know what people will think? They'll wonder, Since when did Anam become so cold?)

Feras narrowed his eyes at her, though the faintest hint of a smirk played on his lips, betraying the stoicism he was trying so hard to maintain. "Mujhe farq nahi padta log kya sochte hain," he said evenly, taking a step closer. "Main nahi chahta ke yeh muskurahat koyi aur dekhe. Bas." (I don't care what people think.) (I don't want anyone else to see this smile. That's it.)

Anam's breath caught in her throat, his proximity and his words rendering her momentarily speechless. She had never seen him this openly possessive before, and while a part of her felt shy under his intense gaze, another part of her couldn't help but feel... cherished.

"Th-theek hai," she stammered, lowering her gaze as her heart raced. "Main koshish karungi." (O-okay. I'll try.)

Feras's expression softened, though his tone remained firm. "Good."

Before she could respond, he turned away, heading toward the bathroom. As he reached the door, he paused, glancing over his shoulder. "Aur haan," he added, his voice quieter but no less commanding, "mere samne aise muskurana karna kabhi band mat karna." (And, yes. Never stop smiling like this, in front of me)

Anam's lips parted in surprise, but before she could react, he disappeared into the bathroom, leaving her standing there, her cheeks burning and her heart fluttering wildly.

She shook her head, a soft, incredulous laugh escaping her as she whispered to herself, "Yeh aadmi bhi..." (This man...)

.....

The sun poured through the kitchen windows, casting a warm, golden glow over the cluttered counters. Ayan stood at the center of it all, hands poised dramatically over the bread, eyes twinkling with mischief.

"Watch and learn, Ayub," he declared, his voice a blend of cocky confidence and playful arrogance. "I'm about to make a sandwich that will change your life."

Ayub, leaning casually against the counter, raised an eyebrow. "Please, Ayan bhai. You've never made anything that didn't end in disaster. Last time you tried making toast, the fire alarm went off."

Ayan scoffed, turning to her with mock offense. "That was an accident. It's called 'experimenting.' Besides, I am a sandwich pro."

Ayub snorted, folding her arms. "Sure, Mr. Sandwich pro. Show me what you've got."

With exaggerated flair, Ayan grabbed a piece of bread and slapped a thick layer of butter onto it, as though it were some kind of culinary masterpiece.

"Are you seriously turning this into a butter sandwich?" Ayub asked, eyes wide with mock horror. "That's more fat than a cheeseburger."

Ayan, unfazed, just shrugged and flashed a grin. "You have to have balance, Ayub. Too much mayo, and it gets soggy. Too little butter, and it's like eating cardboard."

Ayub grimaced. "Soggy? More like a heart attack in a sandwich."

Ignoring her jabs, Ayan layered lettuce, cheese, and a few slices of tomato with the sort of dramatic precision you'd expect from a chef in a five-star restaurant. But just as he was about to finish, disaster struck. His hand accidentally knocked over the whole box of tomatoes, sending them rolling in every direction like tiny red bombs. One tomato even landed with a splat right on top of his head.

Ayub doubled over in laughter. "Well, you sure know how to handle your ingredients, don't you?"

Ayan, never one to be fazed by a little chaos, grinned. "It's called creativity, Ayub. Not everyone can pull off such dramatic flair in the kitchen."

"Well, I can," Ayub replied, turning to her own sandwich with renewed determination. "Let me show you how it's done."

Ayan, eager to get back into the game, leaned forward, watching her every move. "Let's see if you can even make a sandwich without it falling apart."

Ayub flashed a challenging grin. "You're about to witness the art of perfection, my friend."

She began slicing tomatoes with surprising precision, placing them carefully on the bread. But as she reached for the lettuce, Ayan... who had been watching intently... suddenly swooped in and snatched the tomato right out of her hand.

"Hey!" Ayub yelped, her eyes narrowing in mock fury.

Ayan held the tomato above his head like a victory trophy. "You've got to feel the sandwich-making process, Ayub. It's not just about slapping ingredients together. There's an art to it!"

Ayub, determined not to let him get the best of her, jumped up and snatched the tomato back. "Art, huh? More like playing with your food," she quipped, rolling her eyes.

"Well, that's because you're afraid of art," Ayan teased, sidestepping her attempt to grab another tomato. "You lack vision. I, on the other hand, am a true artist. I'm basically Picasso with bread."

Ayub laughed and crossed her arms. "More like Picasso's disaster," she muttered under her breath, but loud enough for him to hear.

"Hey! That was a compliment!" Ayan shot back, still dodging her.

The kitchen echoed with their playful bickering as they moved around each other, trying to sabotage and impress in equal measure. Mayo was spilled everywhere, crumbs flew, and a particularly reckless attempt at flipping a tomato ended with one wedged in Ayan's hair.

"Oh, this is a disaster," Ayub said through fits of laughter, "You look like a tomato head!"

Ayan stood there, tomato dangling from his hair like some sort of misplaced crown. He grinned, despite the mess. "See, this is what you get when you try to out-sandwich a master."

Ayub wiped tears from her eyes, still laughing. "Alright, alright, I'll admit it. Your sandwiches are a work of art... if the art is abstract."

They both stared at their "creations" in silence.

They exchanged a look, both cracking up at the absurdity of it all.

"I think we've made the world's first sandwich disaster," Ayan said, inspecting his towering creation with mock seriousness. "And I'm calling it the Ayan Special."

Ayub laughed so hard she nearly dropped her sandwich. "More like the 'Ayan catastrophe.'"

But as they shared another round of laughter, something subtle shifted between them. Ayan's smile softened, his usual mischievous glint replaced by something quieter, more sincere.

"You know," he said, his voice suddenly less playful, "we make a pretty good team."

Ayub's heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, she forgot all about the ridiculous sandwiches and the mess they'd created. His words lingered in the air, and her cheeks warmed as she tried to regain her composure.

"Yeah," she said quietly, a small smile tugging at her lips. "We do."

Ayan, sensing the shift in the air, threw his hands up in mock surrender. "Okay, okay, but next time, we're just ordering pizza. I'm done with sandwich artistry."

Ayub chuckled, the tension lifting, but there was still a strange fluttering in her chest that she couldn't shake. Being with Ayan always felt so... easy, so natural. There was a connection between them, one that was more than just sibling rivalry... but neither of them was ready to admit it just yet.

"Deal," Ayub agreed, though her heart felt heavier than she cared to admit. "But I'm still the better sandwich maker."

.....

Anam stepped into the kitchen, her gaze immediately falling upon the chaotic mess that greeted her. Flour dusted the countertops, many different vegetables shattered around, and a trail of spilled milk ran along the floor like a tiny river. Eggshells were scattered across the sink, and bowls with unidentifiable mixtures teetered precariously on the edges of the counter.

Her jaw dropped in utter horror. Ya Allah, yeh kya ho gaya yahan?! she thought, frozen for a moment as she tried to comprehend the scene before her. (Ya Allah, what happened here?)

A muffled laugh broke through her shock. She turned her head sharply and found the culprits... Ayan and Ayub... huddled near the stove, covered in evidence of their mischief. Both of them looked up at her with sheepish grins.

"Ayan! Ayub!" she called out in a strict, no-nonsense tone, her hands on her hips. The authority in her voice echoed through the kitchen, making the duo straighten up in alarm.

"Uh-oh," Ayan whispered loudly to Ayub, his eyes wide with mock fear.

"A-api," Ayub stammered, trying to look innocent. "W-we were just..."

"You were what?!" Anam cut her off, narrowing her eyes. "Yeh tum log kya karne ki koshish kar rahe the? Kitchen ki haalat dekhi hai?!" She gestured dramatically to the disaster surrounding them. (What were you all trying to do? Have you seen the condition of the kitchen?!)

"We were making breakfast!" Ayan offered, holding up a frying pan as if it were proof of their noble intentions. Unfortunately, a half-burnt sandwhich didn't exactly help his case. "For you, Anam bhabi! Surprise!"

"Surprise?!" Anam exclaimed, raising an eyebrow. "Yeh surprise hai ya kitchen ka mai qayamat?!" (Is this a surprise or am I witnessing the apocalypse in the kitchen?!)

Ayub bit her lip, looking down at her batter-covered hands, while Ayan scratched his head with a sheepish grin. "Hum bas cooking kar rhe the," Ayan said with exaggerated innocence, blinking at her like a mischievous child. (We were just cooking)

Anam sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Yeh tum log cooking kar rhe the ya kitchen ka destruction," she muttered, glancing at the mess again. "Aur ab? Tum dono yeh sab saaf karoge. Samjhe?" (Was this cooking, or the destruction of the kitchen?) (And now? You two will clean all of this up. Understood?)

Ayan groaned dramatically, leaning against the counter. "But, bhabi, we worked so hard! At least taste it first!"

"Pehle kitchen saaf karo, phir sochungi," she said firmly, though a tiny smile tugged at the corners of her lips. (First clean the kitchen, then I'll consider trying it)

Ayub, sensing a sliver of mercy in her expression, quickly added, "Hum dono milkar sab kuch saaf kar denge, Api. Promise!" She shot Ayan a look that clearly said, cooperate, warna aur daant pareghi  (We will clean everything together, Api. Promise!) (Cooperate, or you'll get scolded more.)

Anam crossed her arms, watching as the two troublemakers reluctantly picked up a sponge and a mop. Then she turned on her heels to leave.

As she walked away, she could hear Ayan whispering to Ayub, "I told you we should've stuck to cereal."

Anam smiled to herself but didn't look back, letting her strict façade remain intact. Allah in dono ke kartootun se kitchen aur mujhe bachaaye, she thought with a chuckle. (May Allah save both the kitchen and me from their actions!)

.....

The room was calm, sunlight streaming through the windows as Anam sat cross-legged on the floor, a soft expression on her face. Pari and Ayub sat across from her, their attention fixed on her. Pari's brows were furrowed in curiosity, and Ayub leaned in slightly, her hands resting in her lap as she listened closely.

Pari broke the silence, her voice hesitant yet inquisitive. "Api, I read something online about Bibi Fatima A.S., about the tragedy after Prophet Muhammad's PBUH death... about the door... I couldn't understand it completely, and it's been bothering me. What actually happened?"

Anam's eyes softened, a mix of reverence and sorrow filling her gaze. "Pari, this is a topic that holds immense pain but is very important to understand. Bibi Fatima A.S., the beloved daughter of our Holy Prophet PBUH, was not just his child; she was his comfort, a part of his soul. Her position in Islam is unmatched, and her life was a reflection of purity, patience, and steadfastness."

She paused, taking a deep breath, as if gathering the strength to narrate the painful events. "After the passing of our Prophet PBUH, a great divide emerged within the Muslim community. Many people, despite knowing the rights of Imam Ali A.S., turned away from him due to their worldly desires. In their pursuit of power, they committed grave injustices."

Pari leaned forward, her expression tense. "What about the door? I've read references, but no clear details..."

Anam nodded solemnly. "Bibi Fatima A.S. stood firmly to defend the truth and the divine right of Imam Ali A.S. as the rightful successor of the Prophet PBUH, and to ask her rights of bagh e Fidaq. When she opposed the usurpers, they resorted to violence. A group of people came to her home, the house of revelation itself, and demanded allegiance from Imam Ali A.S."

She paused, her voice faltering slightly as emotion overcame her. "When their demands were not met, they attacked her door. Bibi Fatima A.S., carrying her unborn child, stood behind that very door, defending her household with unmatched courage. They forced the door open..."

Ayub gasped softly, her hand covering her mouth. Pari's eyes widened, her voice barely a whisper. "She was behind the door?"

Anam nodded, her voice breaking. "Yes. The door was pushed so violently that it crushed her, injuring her ribs and causing her immense pain. Her unborn child, Mohsin A.S., was martyred as a result. Despite this, Bibi Fatima A.S. bore everything with patience and never wavered in her stand for truth."

Tears welled up in Ayub's and Pari's eyes. "How could they... to Prophet PBUH's daughter? to someone so loved by the Prophet PBUH? Someone so pure?" Pari asked, her voice trembling.

Anam's eyes glistened with unshed tears. "This is one of the greatest tragedies in Islamic history. The same people who had seen the Prophet PBUH honor her, who had heard him say, 'Fatima is a part of me; whoever harms her harms me,' still committed such an atrocity. It is a testament to how far some can stray in the pursuit of power."

Pari sniffled, her voice soft. "And how did Bibi Fatima A.S. respond to all this?"

"With incredible patience and strength," Anam replied, her voice filled with admiration. "Even in her pain, she continued to speak out against injustice, to uphold the truth of Imam Ali A.S.'s right. But her health never recovered from those injuries, and shortly after, she left this world, still grieving the betrayal and the loss of her father and her child."

A heavy silence filled the room.

Pari wiped at her eyes, her expression filled with regret. "I didn't know the full story... It's heartbreaking. She went through so much."

Anam nodded, her tone both firm and gentle. "Bibi Fatima A.S.'s life teaches us resilience, faith, and the courage to stand for what is right, no matter the cost. She is an example for all of us, and it's our duty to remember her sacrifices and carry her message forward."

The three of them sat quietly, the weight of the story settling in their hearts. After a moment, Pari spoke again, her voice soft but resolute. "Thank you for telling me, Api. I want to learn more... about her and the Ahlul Bayt A.S. I didn't realize how much I didn't know."

Anam smiled faintly, placing a comforting hand on Pari's. "I'll always be here to tell you. It's important to keep their memory alive, for through them, we find the essence of our faith."

As the conversation between Anam, Pari, and Ayub continued, Chachi suddenly entered the room, her sharp gaze falling on the three of them. Her expression immediately soured when she saw Pari sitting so attentively beside Anam.

"So, this is where you are, Pari," Chachi said with a scornful edge to her voice. "I was wondering why you weren't studying in your room. It seems you've been sitting here, listening to Anam's stories instead of doing something productive."

Anam looked up, startled but calm, as always. "Chachi, Pari asked me a question about Islamic history, so I was just explaining—"

"Explaining?" Chachi interrupted, her voice rising. "Or are you trying to fill her head with your beliefs? Pari doesn't need to be misguided by your version of things. Keep your so-called knowledge to yourself, Anam. Don't think you can start molding her into someone like you."

Pari's face flushed with indignation. "Ammi! I was the one who asked her. I've been reading things online, and I wanted to understand more. Anam Api wasn't forcing anything on me."

Chachi turned on her daughter with a glare. "Don't talk back to me, Pari. I know exactly how people like her work, always acting pious and pretending to know better than everyone else. She's always playing the victim while trying to teach the rest of us how to live our lives."

Anam flinched but remained composed, lowering her gaze. "Chachi, that's not my intention. I was just—"

"You were just trying to act like you're better than us, as usual," Chachi spat, her voice growing louder. "Maybe you should focus on fixing your own household before preaching to others. Oh, wait, your own husband doesn't even acknowledge you properly. No wonder you spend your time—"

"Bas," came a commanding voice from the doorway, freezing everyone in place. (Enough)

Feras stood there, his sharp gaze fixed on Chachi, his presence radiating authority. He took a step forward, his expression cold and unyielding.

"Chachi," he said evenly, his tone like ice, "that's enough."

Chachi turned to him, clearly taken aback but unwilling to back down. "Feras, I'm just saying what everyone knows. You don't need to—"

"Whatever you think you know, keep it to yourself," Feras interrupted, his voice firm and resolute. "Anam isn't here to defend herself, and she shouldn't have to. If Pari asked her something, it's her right to explain it. Anam isn't imposing anything on anyone, and she certainly isn't the one in the wrong here."

Chachi's mouth opened and closed as if searching for a retort, but Feras's sharp glare silenced her. "And stop bringing up things that don't concern you. Whatever happens in my household is my business. You don't have the right to use it against Anam."

Pari looked at her mother, her expression a mix of relief and defiance. "Ammi, I told you, I wanted to learn. Don't blame Anam Api for something I asked."

Chachi pursed her lips, her pride wounded. She muttered something under her breath before turning on her heel. "Fine. Do whatever you want. Don't say I didn't warn you," she said bitterly before leaving the room.

The silence that followed was heavy. Feras turned to Anam, his gaze softening slightly, though his voice remained steady. "You don't have to explain yourself to anyone, Anam. Especially not her."

Anam blinked, stunned by his defense. She gave him a small, grateful smile, her heart swelling with an emotion she couldn't quite name. "Thank you," she said softly.

Feras didn't respond immediately. Instead, he glanced at Pari and Ayub, giving them a slight nod before turning and walking away, leaving the warmth of his words lingering in the air.

Pari turned to Anam with a grin. "Api, he really cares about you, doesn't he?"

Anam blushed, quickly looking down. "Let's not talk about that," she said, though her heart whispered otherwise.

.....

Anam sat on the corner of the bed, folding a fresh set of clothes, when her phone vibrated on the bedside table. The screen lit up, showing an unknown number. She hesitated, glancing at the display, her brows knitting together slightly.

Feras, seated on the sofa across the room with a book in his hand, noticed her pause. "Why aren't you answering it?" he asked, his tone sharp but not harsh.

"It's an unknown number," Anam replied softly, placing the phone back on the table.

Feras arched an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. "Answer it. Ask who it is. You never know, it might be important."

She hesitated again but eventually picked up the call, her voice cautious. "Assalamualaikum. Ji...?" (Yes...?)

As she listened, her expression shifted subtly, a mix of surprise and discomfort flickering across her face. After a moment, she said, "Just a second," and stood, walking out of the room, the phone still pressed to her ear.

Feras watched her leave, his eyes narrowing slightly in curiosity. The conversation hadn't seemed particularly alarming, yet her decision to take it outside piqued his interest. Why wouldn't she continue the call here?

Leaning back on the sofa, he stared at the door for a moment, an unspoken question lingering in his mind. He dismissed it quickly, shaking his head. She must have her reasons, he thought, though the subtle shift in her demeanor before leaving nagged at him.

A few minutes later, Anam reentered the room, her expression calm but thoughtful. She placed the phone back on the table and resumed folding the clothes, avoiding his gaze.

Feras closed his book with a soft thud and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Who was it?"

Anam froze for a split second, her hands gripping the fabric in her hands. She glanced up at him, her lips parting as though searching for the right words. After a brief pause, she offered a casual smile. "No one important," she said lightly, her tone betraying no hint of discomfort.

Feras studied her for a moment, his sharp eyes taking in her calm demeanor. There was no obvious reason to doubt her, yet her hesitation lingered in his mind. Still, he dismissed the thought with a faint shake of his head. It wasn't worth overanalyzing.

"Hmm," he murmured, leaning back again and picking up his book. His tone carried an edge of authority, but he let the matter drop. "Don't ignore unknown calls next time. They might be important."

Anam nodded, her focus returning to the task at hand.

Feras, on the other hand, tried to return his attention to the book in his hands, yet a small part of him couldn't shake the faint unease. Still, he chose not to press further... for now.

"Fatima is a part of me; whoever hurts her has hurt me, and whoever pleases her has pleased me"

—Holy Prophet Muhammad saw