God, the things this man wouldn’t give just to forget her.

Ibrahim sat in the armchair near the bay window, Qur’an still open in his lap though he hadn’t turned a page in ten minutes. The late Lahore light poured in through sheer curtains, catching on the dust in the air, making the old room look softer than it was.

He adjusted the cuffs of his crisp white kurta, then stilled. Again.

She was humming in the next room. Of course she was.

Not his sister—her.

His sister’s best friend. The one who had started dropping by last year to tutor Iman during exam season. Who never really stopped.

The girl who wore her dupatta like armor, made dua before sipping chai, and still somehow managed to talk too much and too fast. The one who called him “Ibrahim bhai” until one day she didn’t—and he never asked her to bring it back.

She didn’t belong here. Not in this old, grief-draped haveli. Not with her soft giggles and her tiny gold jhumkay that swung every time she turned to look at him too fast.

She made this quiet place too loud.

She had asked him once—months ago—why he always looked like he was holding his breath.

He hadn’t answered then.

He still didn’t have one.

Today, she’d come by to return a book she’d borrowed from his library. Of course she had. She returned everything. Everything except her presence. Except her scent on the cushion where she always sat. Except her name in his thoughts.

He glanced down at the page in front of him. Surah Maryam. He wasn’t even halfway through.

And then she called his name from the other room. Not bhai. Not anything formal.

Just Ibrahim.

Soft. Familiar. Like she owned the right.

He closed the Qur’an gently. Placed it on the side table.

Walked to the doorway with the kind of stillness that only comes from a man trying not to feel.

She was standing near the bookshelf, her dupatta slipping again. Always slipping. She caught it, fussed with it, smiled at him like he was someone worth smiling at.

“Iman’s on her way,” she said, voice light. “I’ll wait in the library.”

He nodded once.

She moved past him, barefoot on the rug, and he almost—almost—reached out to stop her.

But instead, he just said her name.

Low. Certain.

She turned back, brows raised gently. “Ji?”

His eyes searched hers for something he could never name out loud. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But still, he said it.

“Main har cheez Allah ke hawalay kar chuka hoon. Lekin tumhara naam… dil se nahi gaya.”