36.

The hallway was quiet except for the steady beep of machines echoing faintly from behind the doors. Feras stood just outside the ICU, his fingers trembling ever so slightly as they gripped the edge of the wall. The doctor's words still rang in his ears: "She's woken up." A truth so simple and yet so overwhelming, it threatened to shatter the icy exterior he had worn for months.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, hope... raw and terrifying... crashed over him. His chest felt heavy, his throat dry. A single tear slid down his face, a rare and intimate display of vulnerability that didn't go unnoticed. Ayan, Ayub, Salman Chachu, and Pari, who had just arrived, looked at him in stunned silence. The sight of Feras breaking down, even for a moment, was a spectacle none of them could comprehend. The man who had carried an air of unshakable dominance, who commanded silence with a glance, now stood on the brink of an emotional collapse.

Ayub clutched Pari's arm, her heart racing. "Feras bhai..." she began softly, but he raised a hand to stop her, his gaze fixed firmly on the door. He didn't have the energy to explain himself... or to maintain his usual demeanor. He couldn't risk breaking any further.

The doctor emerged moments later, nodding to the group. "She's stable. You can go in now, but please... she's still fragile, both physically and emotionally. Take it slow."

Feras didn't wait for further instructions. He stepped forward, his movements deliberate yet strained, and pushed open the door.

Inside, the room was dimly lit, with only the soft glow of a bedside lamp illuminating Anam. She was pale, her delicate features softened by the months of immobility. Her head was modestly covered, as Feras and Ayub had always ensured, but even so, she looked smaller, almost childlike against the stark white of the hospital bed.

Anam's eyes fluttered open, her lashes trembling as she adjusted to the light. She blinked slowly, confusion etched into her face as she scanned the room.

"Api!" Ayub's voice broke the silence as she darted past Feras, tears spilling down her cheeks. She threw her arms around Anam, holding her tightly.

Anam winced slightly at the sudden movement, her voice weak but clear. "Ayub?" she whispered, blinking again as if trying to focus. "What... what happened to your face? You... you look older."

Ayub froze, her arms loosening as she pulled back to look at her sister. "Api...?" she began, her voice trembling.

Anam's gaze shifted past her, landing on Ayan and Pari. Her confusion deepened, her brows knitting together. Then her eyes fell on Feras, and she tilted her head slightly, her expression filled with childlike innocence.

Her next words cut through the room like a blade: "Feras bhai, is that you? Why does everyone look so... different? You all look older."

The silence that followed was deafening. Feras' breath hitched as the words registered. His heart twisted painfully, the term "bhai" stabbing at wounds he hadn't even known existed.

He took a step closer, his voice barely above a whisper. "What... what did you just call me?"

Anam blinked up at him, her lips curving into a faint, innocent smile. "Feras bhai," she repeated casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Feras' jaw clenched, his hands balling into fists at his sides. He had faced countless challenges, endured months of sleepless nights, but nothing had prepared him for this. The woman who had been his anchor, his pain, his guilt, his everything... was now looking at him as though he were a stranger from her past.

Before he could gather himself, Anam's attention shifted again. "Where are Ammi and Abbu?" she asked, her tone tinged with worry as she turned to Pari. "They must be worried about me, right?"

Pari staggered back, her hand covering her mouth. Tears streamed down her face as she struggled to form words. "Api... they... they're gone," she managed to choke out. "They passed away... four years ago."

The room grew impossibly heavy. Anam's face twisted in disbelief, her voice rising in panic. "What the hell are you saying, Ayub?!" she screamed, her hands flying to her head as if to block out the words. Her breaths came in short, sharp gasps. "No! You're lying!"

The doctor stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. "Anam," she said gently, "I need you to answer a question for me. Can you tell me your name? And your age?"

Tears streamed down Anam's face as she struggled to compose herself. Feras, unable to stay still, placed a steadying hand on her shoulder. The contact startled her, but it seemed to ground her slightly.

"My name is Anam," she whispered finally, her voice cracking. "And... I'm seventeen."

The room fell deathly silent.

Seventeen.

Feras felt as though the air had been sucked out of his lungs. He staggered back, his hand clutching the edge of the bed for support. His mind raced, piecing together the implications of her words. Seventeen. Five years erased. She doesn't remember.

He looked at her, his heart shattering in ways he hadn't thought possible. The commanding presence he usually exuded crumbled under the weight of the moment. His lips parted as if to say something, but no words came.

The love of his life... the woman he had fought so hard to keep alive.. was now a stranger to her own reality.

The doctor cleared her throat, breaking the oppressive silence that had settled over the room. "I understand this is difficult for all of you," she began, her tone measured and calm. "Memory loss is common after waking from a prolonged coma. The brain often takes time to readjust, and as the body heals, memories usually resurface slowly. She's disoriented now, but with patience and care, she'll recover."

Before anyone could process his words, Anam's panicked voice cut through. "What do you mean I've lost my memories?" she cried, her voice cracking. Tears streamed down her pale face, her chest heaving as she turned toward Ayub. "Where are Ammi and Abbu? I want them! I need them! Right now!" Her trembling hands clutched the blanket covering her, as though it were her last anchor to sanity.

Ayub's eyes filled with tears, and she moved closer to her sister, but before she could speak, Anam continued, her voice rising in anguish. "What happened to me? Why can't I remember? Why is everyone acting so strange?" Her sobs grew louder, her body trembling under the weight of her emotions.

Suddenly, Feras moved forward, his face a mixture of pain and determination. His tall frame loomed beside her bed as he bent down and pulled her into a firm embrace, ignoring everyone's stunned stares. His arms wrapped around her protectively, as though shielding her from the storm raging inside her mind.

"It's okay, Anam," he murmured, his voice uncharacteristically soft and steady, the deep baritone soothing like a balm. "Everything is okay. You'll be fine. I promise. I'm here. Nothing will happen to you... I won't let it." His words flowed like a lifeline, grounding her panic with his presence.

Anam froze, her sobs faltering as her breath hitched in her throat. The warmth and steadiness of his embrace disarmed her, momentarily silencing the chaos in her mind. But as quickly as the comfort came, confusion and fear took over. She pushed against his chest, her movements frantic. "What are you doing, Feras bhai?!" she exclaimed, her eyes wide with alarm. "You're na mahram! You can't touch me! Let go of me!"

Her words struck Feras like a physical blow, his arms dropping instantly as he stepped back, his jaw tightening. The anguish on his face was unmistakable, but he quickly masked it with a stoic expression, his usual icy exterior returning.

Before the silence could deepen, Pari stepped forward, her face pale but determined. "Api, he's not your na mahram," she said gently, though her voice wavered. "Feras bhai is your husband. You two have been married for about six months now."

Anam's eyes widened in disbelief, her gaze snapping between Pari and Feras as if they were speaking a language she didn't understand. "No... no way," she whispered, her voice trembling. Her mind reeled, memories of her secret, unspoken feelings for Feras bubbling to the surface. The boyish crush she had carefully hidden from everyone... especially him... now clashed violently with the reality that she was married to him.

Her head spun, and she clutched the sheets tighter. "This can't be true," she muttered, shaking her head as if to erase the words. "It's impossible... I... I can't be married to him. No way." Her voice cracked as she turned to Ayub. "Tell me she's lying. Tell me this is some joke!"

Ayub's heart broke at the desperation in her sister's voice. She knelt beside the bed, taking Anam's trembling hands in hers. "Api," she said softly, her own tears falling, "it's true. You and Feras bhai, you got married six months ago."

Anam's lips parted, but no sound came out. Her gaze darted back to Feras, who stood frozen, his usually commanding presence subdued, his face unreadable but his eyes betraying a storm of emotions. For a fleeting moment, their gazes locked, and the vulnerability in his eyes unsettled her. This was not the Feras she remembered... cold, composed, almost untouchable. This Feras looked... human. Hurting.

Her voice broke the silence. "Why don't I remember?" she whispered, her tears falling freely again. "Why can't I remember any of it?"

As the tension in the room grew unbearable, Ayan, always the family's source of light in dark times, stepped forward with his signature grin, though even he looked pale with worry. "Well," he began, clapping his hands together lightly, "at least she didn't call you uncle, Feras bhai. Small mercies, huh?"

The attempt at humor caught everyone off guard, and a few reluctant smiles appeared. Even Anam, despite her tears, blinked at Ayan in confusion, almost as if she was trying to figure out if he was serious. Feras shot Ayan a brief glare, but the corner of his mouth twitched. Ayub rolled her eyes and muttered under her breath, "Not the time, Ayan Bhai."

The doctor entered then, her professional demeanor slicing through the atmosphere. "Alright," she said firmly, "that's enough excitement for now. Anam needs rest. Everyone out, please."

The family hesitated, reluctant to leave Anam alone, but the doctor's expression brooked no argument. Feras, however, remained rooted to his spot by her bedside, his intense gaze locked on Anam, who was still staring at him in confusion and unease. The room fell silent as everyone turned to look at him.

"Mr. Shah," the doctor addressed him directly, "she needs rest. You can come back later."

Feras didn't move. His jaw tightened, and his fists clenched at his sides, but his eyes never left Anam's face. It was as though he feared she might disappear if he looked away.

Salman Chachu walked up to him and gently placed a hand on his shoulder. "Beta," he said in a low voice, "it's better if you go home for a while. Have a shower, get some rest yourself. She'll be fine, and when you come back, you can explain everything to her slowly. She'll need you to be strong for her."

For a moment, it seemed as if Feras would ignore him, but finally, he exhaled sharply and nodded, his reluctance evident in every movement. With one last lingering glance at Anam, he turned and walked out, his shoulders tense.

.....

The drive back to the house was oppressively silent. Even Ayan, usually the one to break tension with his lighthearted chatter, remained quiet, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. Ayub sat beside him, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her dupatta, while Pari looked out the window, lost in thought. But it was Feras who seemed most distant, his jaw clenched, his knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel. His mind raced, replaying Anam's voice calling him "Feras bhai," the confusion in her eyes, the tremor in her voice as she screamed for her parents.

When they finally pulled up to the house, Feras hesitated for a brief moment before stepping out. The familiar sight of the bungalow, once a heaven for their shared routines, cute moments, now loomed like a monument to everything he had failed to protect. It was the first time in three months he had stepped through the front door, and the air inside felt different and heavier.

As he crossed the threshold, memories surged forth like a tidal wave.

He could almost see her waiting for him in the living room, her face lighting up with a soft, hesitant smile no matter how late he returned home. She had always been there, quietly attentive, her presence as steady as a heartbeat. The faint scent of her cooking lingered in the air, conjuring images of their shared dinners, the way she would shyly glance at him across the table, thinking he was not seeing her, her fingers nervously playing with the edge of her hijab when their eyes met.

The house had once been filled with those small, tender moments... moments he had taken for granted. Now, it felt like a hollow shell, a graveyard of memories that refused to let him go.

Feras didn't say a word to anyone as he walked past them and headed straight to his room. He pushed the door open, revealing a space frozen in time. Dust coated the furniture, the air stale from months of neglect, but everything was exactly as he had left it. His gaze fell on the small prayer mat by the window. She would sit there every morning after Fajr, whispering duas or reading Ziyarats. The sight of it made his chest constrict painfully.

As he stepped inside, his knees felt weak, as though the weight of the room itself was pressing down on him. He closed the door behind him, shutting out the world, and sat heavily on the edge of the bed.

His head fell into his hands as the memories came rushing back, relentless and unforgiving.

The afternoon that had changed everything clawed its way to the forefront of his mind. He remembered the way her voice had trembled when she tried to explain herself, the tears streaming down her face as she begged him to believe her. But he hadn't. His pride, his anger, had drowned out her words, and he had walked away, slamming the door on the one person who had only ever wanted to stand by his side.

"Why didn't I trust her?" The words escaped his lips in a broken whisper, his voice barely audible even to himself.

If only he had listened. If only he had turned back before closing the door of his car. If only he had believed in her. None of this... her pain, her coma, the fractured state of their lives... would have happened.

Feras leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clutching his hair as if trying to hold himself together. The guilt was suffocating, coiling around him like a serpent. He had failed her. He had failed to protect her, to trust her, to be the man she had quietly loved with all her heart.

Tears pricked his eyes, blurring his vision as he looked up at the room that had once been their shared space. Every corner held a piece of her... a faint trace of scent on the pillow, the scarf draped over the chair, the faint imprint of her smile in the air.

He had pushed her away when all she wanted was to belong. And now, she was back, but not entirely... not in the way he had hoped. He had prayed so fervently for her to wake up, but the reality of her confusion, her pain, was almost too much to bear.

Feras exhaled shakily, wiping his face with his hands, but the guilt lingered, heavier than ever. He didn't deserve her forgiveness, not after what he had done. But for the first time in his life, he realized that he couldn't let her go...not again.

.....

Meanwhile, Seher and Chachi were in the lounge. The moment they saw everyone entering, their curiosity piqued. Chachi's malicious smile widened as she crossed her arms and said, "So, I heard she's finally woken up."

Her tone was dripping with spite, but before she could continue, Salman raised a hand, his expression dark. "Stop," he said curtly. "Not another word. You'll keep your mouth shut about her."

Chachi's mouth snapped shut, though the glint of resentment in her eyes remained. She watched with narrowed eyes as the others began heading to their rooms to freshen up, clearly exhausted from their time at the hospital.

As Pari walked past, Chachi grabbed her arm, her nails digging into her skin. "Why the hell did you go with them?" she hissed, her voice low but sharp.

Pari flinched but quickly pulled her arm free, glaring at her mother. "Because I wanted to," she replied, her voice defiant. "And I'm not going to stop."

Chachi's face darkened, but Pari turned away before she could say more, heading to her room and slamming the door behind her.

"The interceder of a sinner is his admission (of guilt), his repentance and his apology"

—Imam Ali as