4

Author’s POV

The doorbell rang, soft but firm, echoing through the villa’s quiet.

Dilan, still in the kitchen, wiped her hands on a cloth and walked toward the front door. Dawood looked up, mildly startled, the sound snapping him out of the warm cocoon of his moment with Bakhtiyar..

Bakhtiyar sits attentively from beside Dawood, gently squeezing his brother’s shoulder. “I’ll get it.”

Dawood’s eyes followed him nervously.

"Who’s coming now?" he asked, fidgeting with the corner of his sketchbook.

"Just someone new," Dilan called out gently, walking over to him. "It’s okay, bhai. Don’t be scared. I’m right here."

But Dawood’s eyes grew restless, his fingers starting to twitch against the paper.

"I don’t like new people. What if they’re mean like before?" he murmured, curling slightly into himself.

"I promise you, this one’s not like that," Dilan said, kneeling beside him. “She’s kind. And if you don’t like her, we’ll tell her to go. Okay?”

He looked into her eyes—deep, searching—then nodded slowly, but his body remained stiff with apprehension.

Bakht compose as well, alert but calm.

Dilan opened the door—and there she was.

There stood Noor, slightly shivering—not from cold, but the strange mix of fear and hope that clung to her chest like a second skin. Her dupatta was slightly wind-blown, eyes fixed on the vastness of the villa behind Dilan.

Noor.

Clad in a simple black gown, dupatta drawn over her head, eyes puffy but determined. Her fingers were nervously knotted around the strap of her bag. She looked like she had walked into a different world—one too clean, too luxurious, too far from her own.

Dilan smiled politely. “Noor, right? Come in.”

Noor stepped inside slowly, her eyes taking in the villa—the glossy floors, the high ceilings, the scent of citrus and sandalwood wafting through the air.

She looked... unsure.

Vulnerable, yet determined.

“Come in,” Dilan said gently, stepping aside.

Noor entered cautiously, the marble floor cold under her sandals, the scent of lavender and citrus brushing past her like soft silk. Her eyes scanned the place, but her body remained stiff, alert—as if expecting rejection to arrive at any second.

Before she could say anything, Dilan held her arm gently. “You’re just in time. He’s with his brother right now. Come, I’ll introduce you properly. But... a small warning—he doesn’t do well with strangers.”

Noor nodded silently. Unaware of whom she is talking about.

They walked to the living room, where Bakhtiyar and Dawood sat shoulder to shoulder, sipping chai, the sketchbook between them like a fragile bridge.

As they stepped in, Noor’s eyes landed on the man seated on the floor.

Sketchbook in lap. Barefoot. Hair slightly messy. A bandage peeking from under his collar.

He looked up at her with wide, curious eyes—eyes far too innocent for a man in his late twenties.

Noor blinked, startled.

A grown man, yet there was something childlike about his face. The way he leaned against his brother, how he giggled at something in his sketchbook, and the open innocence in his eyes.

But then Dawood noticed her.

The moment their eyes met—he stiffened.

His expression changed instantly. He gripped the sketchbook tighter, retreating behind Bakhtiyar’s shoulder like a scared animal sensing a threat.

“Who’s she?” he whispered urgently, clutching Bakhtiyar’s arm.

Bakht turned around, confused. “She’s just—”

Dawood’s breath quickened. “I don’t know her. She’s new. I don’t like new people.”

His fingers trembled. “Girls… scream. They lie. I don’t want her. No more new girls!”

Noor froze, guilt instantly flooding her chest, even though she hadn’t done anything. She took a step back instinctively.

Dilan quickly stepped forward, placing herself gently between them.

“It’s okay, Dawood,” she said softly, kneeling down to his level. “She’s just visiting. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.”

Dawood was breathing hard now, rocking slightly, his sketchbook clutched to his chest.

“She’s like miss neha,” he stammered. “miss Neha used to smile like that. Then scream. And touch me. I don’t want to go to the dark room again.”

Bakht’s face darkened, his jaw clenched.

Noor’s heart fell to her knees.

“I’ll go,” she whispered, backing away. “I didn’t mean to scare him.”

Dilan held up her hand gently. “No. Stay.”

She turned to Dawood. “She’s not neha, Dawood. She’s Noor. She’s going to help us. You can draw her if you want. Or not. She won’t touch you unless you say it’s okay. You’re safe.”

Dawood looked at her, then at Noor. His breathing slowed a little, but his body remained tense

His expression shifted.

Confusion. Worry. Fear.

He stood abruptly, stepping behind Bakhtiyar. “No. No more girls. I don’t like new girls. They laugh at me... they lie. They touch my drawings. No. No.”

His voice rose with each word, hands pressing tightly over his ears.

Noor froze.

Her heart sank.

Dilan sighed softly, placing a hand on Bakhtiyar’s shoulder to steady the air.

Bakht turned to his brother, placing both hands on Dawood’s arms. “Bhai, it’s okay. She’s not like them. She won’t hurt your sketches. She’s not here to laugh.”

“She’ll go?” Dawood asked, breathing heavily, pointing toward Noor with a trembling hand. “Tell her go. I don’t want new girl.”

Noor’s throat tightened.

She had no right to feel hurt—but something about the rejection from someone so gentle... stung.

Dilan leaned closer to Dawood, her voice calm but firm. “Dawood... she’s not staying unless you want her to. But she’s here for help.

Still, he shook his head, retreating further until his back hit the wall.

“I don’t want! Girls lie! Like the nurse who said I’ll get better! Like the one who screamed when I cried!”

Noor stepped forward. Slowly. Carefully.

She knelt down, lowering her eyes—not looking at him directly.

“Dawood ,” she said softly. “I don’t know those girls. But I’m not them. I don’t know how to lie... I only know how to survive.”

He paused.

His breathing slowed just a bit. His eyes flicked to her face, which still didn’t meet his.

“I don’t want friends,” he said again, weaker this time.

“Okay,” Noor whispered, folding her hands in her lap. “Then I’ll just be someone who listens. I’ll sit in the room if you cry. I’ll keep your pencils sharp. I won’t laugh. I swear on my brother"

That made him blink.

He tilted his head. “You have a brother?”

Noor finally met his gaze—calm, unflinching. “he's 18. he is going to be a doctor."

Dawood frowned, thinking deeply. “doctor?”

Noor gave him a faint smile. “Yeah. .”

Silence.

Then—unexpectedly—Dawood stepped forward.

He crouched in front of her and reached into his sketchbook, flipping a few pages.

"Can I draw your doctor brother?” he asked. “Only if he  likes biscuits and stars.”

Noor smiled, swallowing a tear.

“he’d love that, Dawood.”

He gave a small, unsure smile back. The first real one.

And in that moment—

A fragile thread tied between two broken souls.

Dawood returned to his sketchbook, muttering something about “adding a new star.”

Bakht quietly slipped away to give them space.

Dilan signaled for Noor to follow her into the adjacent sitting room.

They sat on the velvet couch, tea already waiting on the table.

“I know this must feel strange,” Dilan said, stirring her cup. “But I’ve read your file. I know about your responsibilities. Your brother’s situation. I know you need money.”

Noor looked down, ashamed but composed. “Yes. I do.”

Noor sat with her hands wrapped around a cup of warm milk, staring into its surface like it held answers to a life she never imagined.

Dilan sat across from her, hands folded.

“I won’t lie to you,” she began. “Dawood is complex. His trauma runs deeper than even we understand. He was abused when he was younger. "

Noor’s jaw clenched slightly, her grip tightening on the cup.

“But he’s also gentle. Artistic. Innocent. Sometimes too innocent. He has cognitive delays, yes... but emotionally, he’s like a child stuck in a man’s body. He trusts slowly. But once he does—he’ll guard you with everything.”

Dilan’s voice softened. “Dawood needs a full-time companion. Someone gentle but firm. Someone who won’t get startled when he has seizures or meltdowns. Someone with patience and empathy. And honestly, Noor—you’re my first choice.”

Noor’s lips parted slightly, surprised. “Me?”

Noor swallowed hard. “I’ve never taken care of someone with… cognitive issues before.”

“You don’t have to be perfect,” Dilan assured. “We have nurses, therapists. You won’t be alone. But Dawood… he needs a person. A constant. A human who isn’t paid to pity him but will treat him like he matters.”

Noor looked toward the doorway where Dawood now sat cross-legged, talking to a cushion like it was a space alien.

“I need this job,” Noor whispered.

“I know,” Dilan replied, reaching over to gently clasp her hand.

“You’ll get a private room here. You can bring your brother, if you like. And I’ll help with Saleh’s admission fees if things go well after probation.”

Noor’s breath caught. She wasn’t expecting that.

Dilan leaned forward. “But more than that, Noor… if you can help Dawood smile again—if you can become his anchor—you’ll be changing his life. And he… might just change yours too.”

Silence lingered between them for a long moment.

Then Noor nodded slowly.

“I’ll do it.”

Noor nodded slowly, the weight of the responsibility sinking in.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Dilan asked gently.

Noor looked up, her voice steady.

“I’ve lived with monsters. I’ve bathed in shame. I’ve worked in hospital where my worth was measured by the shape of my body. But in Dawood’s eyes… I didn’t see cruelty. I saw someone who still dreams.”

She exhaled. “And I need this job. For my brother.  But maybe... for myself, too.”

She didn’t know what kind of storm she was stepping into.

But for now—

She had found a roof, a purpose, and maybe, unknowingly… a broken star that needed her light.

Dawood came to them with his sketch book

He stared at her dupatta, then at her eyes.

"Why are your eyes sad?" he asked.

Noor’s breath caught in her throat. She looked away quickly.

"Sometimes… grownups get tired too," she said.

He stared at her a moment longer, then—startling everyone—reached forward and placed a sketch into her hand.

A star. A big, uneven one, with a tiny face drawn in the middle and the name "doctor?" scribbled underneath.

“You can keep it if you’re nice,” he said.

Noor felt a knot form in her throat.

“I’ll treasure it,” she whispered.

He smiled faintly—just the corner of his lips lifting. Then he turned back toward the sofa, his shoulders less tense than before.

ilan  poured her a glass of water.

“I won’t sugarcoat it,” she began again “Dawood’s been through a lot. What happened to him as a teenager… left scars that didn’t fade with time. He was institutionalized for a while. Overmedicated. Mistreated. Especially by women in authority.”

Noor froze.

“He’s afraid of women?” she asked softly.

“Not all. But yes—he gets triggered easily. Sudden movements, harsh voices, unfamiliar scents… all these can make him spiral. Sometimes he wets the bed. Sometimes he screams in his sleep. There are days he won’t speak at all,” Dilan said, her voice gentle but honest.

“His cognitive condition is called ‘childhood-onset trauma-induced cognitive regression.’ He’s 28, but most days he thinks and reacts like an 8-year-old. On bad days… even younger.”

Noor nodded slowly, absorbing it all.

Dilan leaned forward. “I won’t blame you if you say no. This job is emotionally draining. And you’ll have to stay here. Full time.” she said for reassurance.

Noor looked toward the living room, where Dawood sat humming to himself, gently tearing

paper into shapes.

Then she thought of Saleh—crying into her lap, bleeding, trying to let go of his dreams.

“I’ll do it,” Noor said, voice steady.

Dilan blinked. “Are you sure?” she ask again to confirm.

"I need money" controlling her emotions.

*""

Comments