5.

"How strange and foolish is man. He loses his health in gaining wealth. Then, to regain his health he wastes his wealth. He ruins his present while worrying about his future, but weeps in the future by recalling his past. He lives as though death shall never come to him, but dies in a way as if he were never born"

― Imam Ali as

FERAS' POV

The sun was barely up when I arrived at the office, a small yet imposing building nestled in the heart of the village. It stood as a testament to how far we'd come—a village once teetering on the edge of poverty now thrived with schools, clinics, and businesses. Managing my father's legacy had been no small feat, but seeing the transformation made it worth the endless hours I spent buried in paperwork, meetings, and logistics.

I pulled off my blazer, tossing it over the back of my chair as I glanced at the stack of files on my desk. The day had barely begun, but I already felt the weight of responsibility pressing down on my shoulders.

For years, this had been my life. Work, plans, and more work. I didn't mind it—it gave me purpose, kept my mind focused. Kept me from thinking too much about things that didn't make sense.

Like her.

Anam.

The thought of her crept in unbidden, like a shadow slipping through a crack in the door. I leaned back in my chair, exhaling slowly as her face flashed in my mind. She had a way of doing that... appearing in the quiet moments when my guard was down.

At first, I thought it was just familiarity. She was my cousin, after all, though the term felt oddly misplaced when it came to her. There was a distance between us, one I couldn't quite bridge, even if I wanted to. She was always quiet around me, reserved to the point of being submissive, and yet, I'd seen glimpses of another side to her... a fire that burned behind her eyes, a strength that refused to be snuffed out despite the way she was treated in this house.

It frustrated me. Not her... never her... but the way she was made to endure so much. The taunts, the whispers, the way even Chachi treated her like an outsider.

I didn't understand it. I didn't care that she was Shia. What did it matter? She was family. She prayed, fasted, and carried herself with dignity and faith. If anything, her unwavering devotion to her beliefs was something to admire.

The elders saw it differently, of course. To them, her mother's lineage... her Shia heritage... was a blemish that couldn't be overlooked. Even Ayub seemed to tread carefully around the topic, caught between loyalty to her sister and the expectations of the family.

But Anam... she didn't waver. And I couldn't help but respect her for it.

.....

I left the office later than usual, the sky tinged with the soft hues of dusk as I drove back to the house. The faint buzz of my phone pulled me from my thoughts. It was Ayaan, my younger brother, calling to update me on some trivial matter about the university.

Ayaan was my opposite in almost every way—carefree, joyful, the kind of person who could bring life to a room just by walking into it. Sometimes, I envied his lightness, his ability to move through life without the constant weight of duty dragging him down.

By the time I reached home, the living room was alive with chatter. Chachi was seated with my father, Salman Chachu, and a few other relatives. Anam was there too, standing quietly by the door with her hijab perfectly in place, her expression unreadable.

"Feras, you're home," my father greeted me. His voice was warm, but there was a trace of weariness in his eyes.

"Assalamu alaikum," I said, my voice cold and steady.

"Wa alaikum salam," came the chorus of replies.

Anam's voice was soft, barely audible above the others, but I caught it. I always did.

I stepped into the room, taking my usual place by the window. The convarsation soon turned to family matters, and I tuned out most of it, my attention drifting to Anam. She was still standing there, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, as if bracing herself for something.

It wasn't until I heard Chachi mention Seher's name that I snapped back to the discussion.

"...and Feras agrees," Chachi was saying, her smile wide and self-satisfied. "It's a perfect match, isn't it?"

My father nodded thougthfully. "Yes, it seems like a reasonable decision. We'll speak to Seher soon."

I kept my expression neutral, even as a flicker of unease stirred in my chest. I'd agreed to their suggestion of marriage, not because I cared for it, but because it seemed like the easiest way to avoid unnecessary conflict. Yet now, with Anam standing there, her gaze fixed on the floor, I couldn't help but feel... off.

I didn't know what this feeling was. Frustration? Guilt? Something else?

"Anam," Chachi's voice cut through my thoughts. "Why are you just standing there? Go help in the kitchen."

Anam's head snapped up, her cheeks flushing slightly as she nodded and hurried out of the room.

I wanted to say something, to stop her, but the words lodged in my throat. Instead, I turned back to the conversation, forcing myself to focus on the plans being laid out before me.

But even as I sat there, I couldn't shake the image of her walking away, her shoulders tense and her head held high despite the weight she carried.

What was this feeling?

Brotherly affection? Protective instinct? Or something else entirely?

I didn't have the answers. And for now, maybe it was better that way.

.....

It was late, and the house had settled into its usual nightime quiet. I stepped out into the garden, needing space from the stifling air inside. The discussions earlier had been exhausting—the same mindless chatter about my future, my marriage. As if I had time for such trivialities.

The moonlight spilled over the garden, casting long shadows over the guava tree. That's when I saw her.

Anam.

She was sitting under the tree, wrapped in a shawl, her knees pulled to her chest. For a moment, I considered walking away. It wasn't my concern, whatever she was doing out here. But something about the way she sat—small, quiet, like she was trying to disappear—made me pause.

"Anam."

Her head jerked up, her eyes wide. She scrambled to her feet, clutching the shawl tightly aroound her. "Feras bhai," she said, her voice small.

I crossed my arms, narrowing my eyes. "What are you doing out here?"

"I—" she faltered, glancing away. "I couldn't sleep. I just needed some air."

I stepped closer, my gaze fixed on her. "It's late. You shouldn't be wandering around alone."

Her fingers tightened on the shawl, and she nodded quickly. "I'm sorry. I'll go inside."

She turned to leave, but I wasn't done.

"Stop."

She froze, her back stiff, before slowly turning to face me again.

"Why do you always apologize?" I asked, my voice low but firm. "Even when you haven't done anything wrong?"

Her lips parted as if to respond, but no words came. She looked down, her silence stretching between us.

"I asked you a question, Anam," I said sharply.

"I..." she began, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's just easier that way."

"Easier?" I stepped closer, my tone hardening. "You let them walk all over you. You let them treat you like a servant. Don't we have enough servents at home? Do you think that's what you deserve?"

Her head snapped up at that, her eyes flashing with something I couldn't quite place... anger? Defiance?

"I don't think I deserve it," she said, her voice trembling but steady. "But this is my family. They took me and Ayub in when we had nowhere else to go. I owe them my gratitude."

I stared at her, my jaw tightening. "Gratitude doesn't mean losing your self-respect."

Her hands clenched at her sides, and for a moment, I thought she might argue. But then her gaze dropped again, and she took a small step back.

"You don't understand," she said softly.

"To tum hi samjhado." (Then explain it to me)

She hesitated, her fingers twisting the edge of her shawl. "It's not just about me. Ayub still has a future here, a place in this family. If I make things harder, it'll affect her too. I won't let that happen."

Her words struck a nerve, though I couldn't say why. I didn't like her reasoning—it felt too much like an excuse. But there was a conviction in her voice, a quiet strength, that made it hard to argue.

"Fine," I said curtly. "If that's the choice you've made, so be it. par ye mat sochna ke mai sabkuch khara khara dekhta rhunga." (But don't think that I will keep watching everything happen. )

Her eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of surprise—or perhaps confusion.

"Tum meri behen ho akhir kar," I continued, my tone cold. "Whether you like it or not, you're part of this family. That means I'll step in when necessary." (You're my sister afterall)

She nodded slowly, her gaze dropping again, in disappointment. "Thank you, Feras bhai." She said dully.

I exhaled sharply. "Stop thanking me. Just... take care of yourself." That "Bhai" made me feel something, maybe anger?...

I didn't feel anything wrong with it not even when Seher said it... Not even when the girl I was about to marry called me bhai.

But when Anam said it... I hated it. It crawled under my skin, twisted something inside me.

NO

Without waiting for a response, I turned and walked away, the echo of my footsteps fading into the night.

Even as I left her standing there, something about the encounter lingered in my mind. I told myself it was just frustration... at her passivity, her willingness to endure. But deep down, I couldn't shake the feeling that it was something more.

Something I didn't want to name.