Mehr stood outside her father's room, heart pounding. She entered quietly, finding him seated in his armchair, reading.
"Baba," she began softly, "I want to apologize to you."
Sultan lowered his book and looked up at her, eyes narrowed in disbelief. "Apologize?"
Mehr folded her arms. "For whatever I said or did that hurt you."
He stood, voice suddenly sharp. "Where were you with Fateh that day?"
It was the second time he'd asked—both he and Khanum seemed obsessed with this question. Mehr clenched her fists. "Why does everything revolve around Fateh with you?"
Before she could speak further, Sultan took out his phone and showed her a photo: her, standing close to Fateh, who was whispering something in her ear. Her smile in the photo felt like a betrayal now.
She tried to explain, "Baba, that—"
But his hand struck her face with a force that echoed across the room. She collapsed to the floor. Her hand flew to her cheek, which stung with heat and shock.
Khanum rushed in, gasping at the sight. "Sultan Sahib! What are you doing? She's your daughter!"
Mehr lay motionless on the floor, stunned by her father's rage—his hand. It was the first time he'd ever struck her.
Sultan's voice was cold. "This is a lesson she will never forget. I should have done it long ago."
Khanum helped Mehr up, her face pale, the mark of the slap still burning red. "Mehr, my child, are you okay?"
Mehr didn't answer. Her chest rose and fell with ragged breaths. Then her voice erupted, raw and trembling:
"Get out! Both of you! Get out of my life! I hate you both!"
"Mehr!" Khanum tried to calm her, but Mehr backed away.
"Don't come near me!" she screamed. "I don't need your sympathy!"
She stormed off to her room. Once inside, she unleashed her rage—perfume bottles hurled at the door, shattering into a cacophony of glass and fragrance. The house echoed with the sounds of grief.
"Sultan Sahib, she's just a child—" Khanum pleaded.
"She's a spoiled brat who needs to learn. Let her be," he snapped. "You need to pack. We leave for Islamabad tomorrow."
Khanum lingered at Mehr's door later that night, knocking gently. "Mehr… please open the door. It's your Amma. Talk to me."
Inside, Mehr heard her voice but stayed silent. Her rage hadn't cooled; it simmered, suffocating her.
The next morning, Sultan sat at the breakfast table, eating quietly. Khanum hadn't touched her plate.
"She's locked herself in," Khanum said, voice hollow. "She hasn't spoken since yesterday."
Sultan didn't even flinch. "She'll come out when she's hungry."
"She's hurting!"
He stood, brushing off her concern. "Let her learn. Let's go."
Before leaving, Khanum whispered to the servant Yusuf, "Take care of Mehr. She hasn't eaten. Just... be there for her."
"I will, Baji," Yusuf promised. And then they were gone.
Hours passed. Yusuf tried to coax Mehr out of her room, but silence was the only reply. Then, around 9 p.m., another knock came. A familiar voice called through the door.
"It's me. Open up."
No response.
"It's Fateh."
A faint voice replied. "I know it's you. But go away. Talk to Baba, not me."
"They're not here, Mehr." Fateh's voice cracked.
Silence.
Then the door opened. Mehr's eyes were puffy, but her expression shifted to confusion. "What do you mean? Where are they?"
Fateh stepped in, gently guiding her to sit. "Mehr... they're gone."
She froze. "What do you mean gone?"
"They're... they're dead."
She stared at him, unblinking. "No. You're lying."
"They died in an accident, Mehr. They're not coming back."
She pushed him away and ran. Fateh chased her down the hall. As she turned the corner, she stopped. Two funeral biers lay before her. Her body collapsed before her mind could even comprehend.
Just six steps away. But she couldn't take a single one.
She crumbled.
Fateh approached her with a black shawl—her own. He wrapped it around her shoulders.
"Mehr," he whispered. "Get up. Please. Say goodbye."
"No!" she sobbed. "I can't. I don't want to! They can't be gone! It's my fault!"
He tried to lead her closer. "Look at them one last time."
"No... if I look at them, they'll leave. Baba will leave."
But eventually, she approached. "Mama, please wake up… Baba, I'm sorry… forgive me!"
She wept like she'd never wept before. The walls of the house soaked up her cries. The grief was unbearable—louder than death itself.
As Yusuf announced, "It's time," Mehr screamed again, fighting against the finality.
"Stop them! Don't let them go!"
"They have to, Mehr."
He handed her to the women, and the procession left. Her wails echoed through the halls. When it was over, she went to her room. Her shawl slipped from her shoulders, left behind at the door.
Later, Fateh came in and found her sitting beside the bed, staring into a mirror.
"Mehr…" he called, kneeling beside her.
No response.
She placed her head on his shoulder but didn't speak. Her tears fell silently.
Then—crash.
The mirror shattered. Mehr had smashed it with a chain, breaking the silence again.
"Mehr, please…" Fateh tried to hold her.
"Leave me! Everyone, leave me alone!" She shoved him out and slammed the door.
He stood outside, heart breaking. "I'll wait here. I'm not going anywhere."
The next morning, Uncle Yusuf brought him tea.
"Son, you'll get sick like this."
"I'm fine, Uncle," Fateh replied, eyes on Mehr's door. She hadn't come out.
Then she did. Quiet as a whisper. She went to her parents' room.
The scent of them lingered.
She lay on their bed, breathing it in like it was the last bit of air in the world.
Every pillow. Every sheet. Every corner.
It all smelled like home.
When Fateh returned, her room was empty. He panicked.
"Uncle Yusuf! Where's Mehr?"
"She was in her room—"
"She's not there!"