3

Noor

I stepped out of the cabin and saw her walking away with a man. His broad back was the only thing I could see.

Then I looked at the card in my hand and cursed myself for not even asking her what kind of job she was offering me.

Steadying my breath, I walked off to find Didem.

"Where were you, Noor? The new owner is waiting in the hallway—everyone has to be present!" she burst out as soon as she saw me.

Only if I could tell her how drastic my meeting was with the new owner…

"Didem, I’m not feeling well. Can you manage things without me?" I asked, wiping my face to calm down.

"Hey, what happened? Are you okay?" she asked, gently caressing my cheek.

"Yeah," I nodded.

"I’m okay... but I really need to go home," I said.

"Okay, go change your clothes. I’ll handle things here. Just pray the new owner doesn’t decide to change the entire staff," she said, tapping my shoulder.

I thanked her, changed out of my uniform, grabbed my bag, and made my way to the exit, passing the hallway.

Everyone from the staff was gathered there, and then I saw that bold girl—the one who saved my daughter’s dignity. She was busy questioning and inspecting with an undeniable aura of power.

Can a girl really be this strong and commanding?

I stared at her, mesmerized by her dominating presence—she acted like she owned the place. And well, she did.

My sixth sense told me someone was watching me, but I was lost in Dilan Malik’s voice and the replay of her proposal in my mind.

Once home, I dropped my bag and dupatta on the mattress on the floor and walked to the washroom.

I felt disgusted with myself. Fateh’s touch and his shameful words made my skin burn in the most brutal way.

I scrubbed my skin like I wanted to peel it off. I hissed in pain as the cold water touched the raw, bleeding patches I had rubbed.

My heart felt unbearably heavy with the weight of my own decisions.

How could I be so foolish?

He was after my body?

"Just one night..."

"I have a job for you..."

My mind spiraled with everything.

I didn’t know whether to cry for being a victim of assault, or for not having a single penny left to support my brother… or maybe I did know.

Clutching my hair, I let the water soak my body—trying to let it absorb my pain.

"Why did you leave so soon, Mama, Baba?" I cried at my pathetic reflection.

Walking out of the washroom, I dried myself and changed into something comfortable, hoping it would soothe my burning skin.

I closed my eyes, haunted by the memory of his disgusting touch on the most private parts of me.

Why are men so cruel?

I did all the chores again since I had returned early. My aunt and daughter weren’t home—those three loved to roam around freely without a care.

I wished I could do the same… but fate had other plans for me.

I was preparing something to eat when Saleh’s voice made me smile.

My soul—my baby brother.

But the moment I saw him, the smile vanished. My blood ran cold.

Torn and dirty clothes. A split lip crusted with dry blood. Wounded knuckles.

"Saleh, what happened?" I asked, rushing to him, checking if he was bleeding anywhere else.

He hissed in pain when I touched the cut near his temple.

"Nothing, Aapi. That Fatir was messing with me. He said I won’t make it to university..."

I put my hand on his mouth to stop him.

"Come. Let me clean this," I said, leading him to my room.

As I cleaned his wounds, he asked,

"Why are you home so early, Aapu?"

"There was an inspection, so I came early," I replied, avoiding eye contact. He would know I was lying just by looking into my eyes.

"Aapi..." he began as I finished bandaging him.

"I don’t think I should dream about university. I’ll do any work to support you. We can’t afford those expenses."

My heart sank. No. My brother will study. I don’t want him to become a cheap laborer.

"Saleh, don’t you dare say that. You’ll study. You’ll achieve your goals. You’ll become the best neurologist Izmir has ever seen," I said, holding his hand.

He chuckled bitterly.

"It’s not that easy, Aapu. Medical college fees are sky-high now. And I can’t even qualify for a scholarship—I was too busy working at the garage," he said, trying to control his tears.

"Hey, mera baccha, look at me," I said, gently cupping his face.

My eyes burned seeing tears in his.

"You are talented, Saleh. You’ll achieve everything," I said, wiping his tears.

"Talent isn’t everything, Aapu. Our society runs on money and power. That Fatir guy—he barely passed, but still got selected because his father donated. And look at me… dirtying my hands in Sabir Sahab’s garage just so we can eat three meals a day," he broke down, leaning into my palm.

“Aapi, hum dono ki salary milkar bhi medical college ka expense nahi de sakte,” he said, wiping his tears.

And my heart shattered into a million pieces. I couldn't see my brother in pain.

I know what kind of deprived teenage years we had, but now I will not let my brother bury his dreams like I buried mine because of the burden of responsibility.

I made up my mind — I will visit her tonight.

“Bachha, your Aapi will do anything for your admission and career. Just have faith in Allah,” I said, wiping his tears.

Before we could say anything more, my aunt’s voice startled us.

we quickly wipes our tears,

We both sat upright, acting normal. I had already finished the chores, so there was nothing for her to scold about.

It was around 7 in the evening when I get ready to visit Dilan.

Because I couldn’t bear to see my brother like this anymore.

Wearing my black gown and a dupatta over my head, I slung my bag across my arm and stepped out to find a taxi.

Within half an hour, I was standing in front of a castle-like villa—all white, straight out of a fairytale.

I paid the taxi driver and thanked him politely.

And now… I was standing in front of a huge, white iron gate.

Ready to anything to build my brother's career no matter what it is.

---

***

Author's pov

Dawood was sitting cross-legged on the floor, flipping gently through the pages of his sketchbook. The villa was quiet, peaceful, wrapped in the scent of Dilan’s citrus candles and the muted hum of birds outside.

He looked up every now and then toward the door, as if waiting for something—or someone.

The stillness was broken by the familiar jingle of Dilan’s keys and the thud of footsteps. The door opened. Dilan entered first, laughing softly, brushing dust off her sleeve.

Behind her walked Bakhtiyar.

Tall, handsome, his eyes sharp with exhaustion and some unspoken weight. His shirt was slightly rumpled, sleeves rolled up, and the scent of hospital disinfectant still clung faintly to him.

"Bakhtu, I swear if you make me walk one more construction site, I’m going to fake a sprained ankle," she said dramatically, tossing her bag onto the table as she stepped in.

Bakhtiyar followed behind, sleeves rolled up, hair tousled from the wind, his presence calm but heavy—as if carrying something unspoken on his broad shoulders.

The moment he entered, his eyes fell on the figure on the floor.

Time stilled.

Dawood looked up—eyes wide, uncertain, like a child caught in a fragile moment. His lips parted, but no words came. His sketchbook began to tremble in his lap.

Bakht stopped. His breath hitched, his eyes locked on his elder brother—the man who looked like him, yet didn’t. Older, softer, haunted. His jaw clenched.

"Dawood...bhai" he said, barely above a whisper.

Dawood stood slowly, his sketchbook falling to the floor with a soft thud. He didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. Just stared—like his heart had been waiting for this second to unfold in silence.

"Bakhtu..." he finally breathed, voice cracking like a dry leaf underfoot.

“Bakhtu…” he whispered, like someone who’d spotted the moon after a long eclipse.

Bakhtiyar froze.

His eyes met Dawood’s, and something in him cracked open.

He stepped forward, slowly at first, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

Dawood unbalanced—and by the time he was fully on his feet, Bakhtiyar had already crossed the room and wrapped him in the fiercest embrace.

“Dawood…bhai” he breathed out like a prayer.

Dawood clutched him back, his long arms shaking. His face buried in his brother’s shoulder, tears wetting Bakhtiyar’s shirt.

“I waited for you, Bakhtu,” he murmured brokenly. “You said you’ll come... but you didn’t.”

Bakht’s hands tightened around him like he was trying to make up for every second lost.

He held him like he was afraid he’d disappear again.

Bakht closed his eyes.

"I missed you every day," Dawood whispered into his shoulder. "I used to draw you... so you wouldn’t fade from my mind."

That broke Bakht.

He clenched Dawood tighter, burying his face in his brother’s shoulder, his body heaving with raw sobs. Years of helplessness poured out in a single breath.

"I’m sorry," he choked. "I couldn’t be there...  when you needed me. I was a coward, bhai. I was so angry... so lost."

Dawood just smiled, tears slipping from his eyes, one hand gently patting the back of Bakht’s head like a child soothing his younger sibling.

"You came now," he whispered. "That’s enough for me."

Dilan stood quietly near the doorway, her throat tight, eyes glossy as she witnessed two broken pieces of one soul finally fit together.

"Finally," she murmured under her breath, smiling through her tears. "My boys are home."

The sky outside had started turning dusky, the golden rays melting into soft pinks through Dilan’s wide windows. Inside the villa, the world felt suspended — as if time itself had paused to honour a long-overdue moment.

Dawood and Bakhtiyar now sat on the living room floor, cushions scattered around them. A low wooden table between them held two cups of chai that Dilan had quietly made and placed, knowing words would flow better with warmth in hand. She stayed in the kitchen, giving them space but listening from a distance with a soft ache in her chest.

Dawood stared into his cup, his fingers wrapped carefully around it, letting the warmth seep into his skin.

Bakht, still wiping his face, looked at his elder brother with a softness that was rare for him. Like he was looking at someone sacred, someone wronged by the world but too innocent to even carry resentment.

He stared into the steam for a long second, then softly said,

“You still drink too fast... your cup is always empty before mine.”

Bakht let out a dry laugh, wiping his face.

“You still notice everything.”

Dawood looked at him then. Really looked.

There was exhaustion in Bakht’s eyes, but there was something else too. Guilt. Love. Unspoken apologies folded deep in the lines of his face.

“I never stopped being your brother,” Dawood said. “Even when you stopped visiting. I still drew you. I still... waited.”

Bakht lowered his gaze, blinking fast.

“I didn’t know how to face you after that...” his voice cracked. “I blamed myself for not being there. For not stopping everything And then—when I heard you were unwell, I panicked. It was easier to run than to see the damage.”

Dawood  pulled up the fallen sketchbook. He flipped through pages—each filled with haunting, soft pencil sketches: a child’s memory of a younger brother with messy hair, a wide smile, half-finished attempts at forgiveness.

He stopped on one.

A sketch of Bakhtiyar.

Seated on a bench. Looking over his shoulder. Smiling faintly, but his eyes full of sorrow.

He passed it over.

Bakht took the sketch with both hands like it was sacred.

“You drew this... from memory?”

Dawood nodded.

After a moment, Dawood leaned forward, picking up his sketchbook from the sofa. He flipped through pages, each filled with hauntingly beautiful charcoal sketches—some of Taniya, some of stars, some of faceless men, until he stopped on one.

He turned the page toward Bakhtiyar.

It was a sketch of him — Bakhtiyar standing in front of a burning field, fists clenched, tears falling but fire behind his eyes. A raw storm of rage and pain frozen in strokes of black and grey.

Bakht’s throat tightened. He stared at it like he was looking into a mirror of his soul—one even he hadn’t dared to face.

“You drew this… of me?”

Dawood nodded, eyes shining.

Bakhtiyar couldn’t speak. He could only reach out, his hand brushing over the sketch like he was afraid it would crumble if he touched too hard.

“I wasn’t strong like you,” he murmured.

Dawood blinked, confused. “But you’re the strongest.  Baby brother,You protected me ,You protect everyone. I... I just draw.”

Bakht laughed through a thick sob. “No, bhai... You survived. That’s strength too. You saw hell and still smile like a child. That’s not weakness—that’s the purest kind of power.”

They sat in silence, emotions thick between them, but soft. Healing.

"Still calling me baby brother when you’re the one who looks like a lost little boy holding a sketchbook,” he teased, voice breaking.

They both laughed—quietly, wet-eyed, but full-hearted.

Dilan peeked from the kitchen, saw them laughing, and leaned back against the counter with a soft smile on her face.

Some wounds heal in hospitals.

Some, over chai and an old sketchbook.

From the kitchen doorway, Dilan wiped her tears qui

etly.

“Finally,” she whispered again. “They’re healing "

And for the first time in years, the two brothers sat side by side — not as a traumatic past and a guilty future, but as two souls beginning to heal, together.

But the  door bell interrupt them..

***

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