6

Noor

Next morning, I woke up to the sound of the azan and the throb in my arms.

My eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the dim light filtering through the cracked windowpane. The sketch was still clutched against my chest, slightly crumpled now, and my first instinct was to smooth it out carefully and kiss the corner of the paper.

I  sat up with a wince, my  body aching with every movement. My  lip had crusted with dried blood, and the scratches on my  arm burned where the bandage had stuck to the wound.

But something inside me felt sturdier than yesterday.

Quietly, I folded the paper and slipped it inside Saleh’s old storybook—the one he never read but kept because it had his name scribbled on the back in crayon.

I  didn’t want to wake him.

I  got ready quietly, slipping on the plainest of my clothes. My  scarf covered most of my bruises. My  kohl lightly masked the swelling around my eye. And then i  picked up my bag, whispered a prayer under my  breath, and stepped out.

It felt like some kind of mannat I couldn’t describe.

For the first time in a long time, I didn’t wake up with dread but with a strange unease—

A responsibility heavier than my own survival.

I tiptoed to the kitchen and made a cup of tea for myself—my fingers trembling with fatigue and leftover fear.

Layla was already awake, preparing breakfast for herself, her earphones plugged in. She didn’t say anything—just glanced at me and pointed to the leftover food kept inside the plastic dabba.

I murmured a quiet thanks and ate in silence.

There was no sign of Gokce or Phupho yet, and I thanked Allah for that brief window of peace.

By the time I stepped outside, Saleh was still asleep, his arm wrapped around his pillow like a child.

I kissed his forehead and whispered, “soon, I’ll send you to a college that smells of books, not engine oil.”

Then I stepped into the same narrow lane that looked at me differently now.

The driver was already waiting near the black car, just like Dilan had promised. I hesitated again—just like i had the night before—but this time, i pushed myself forward.

This job was no longer just about escape.

It was about Saleh.

And maybe… maybe also Dawood.

As i  sat in the backseat, i found my  fingers tracing the stitching on my  bag again, where the sketch now lived.

Last night’s car had changed something. Eyes followed me. Some curious. Some judging. Some whispering.

But I kept walking.

Because today I wasn’t going to the hospital cafeteria or folding uniforms.

I was going to see him again.

Dawood.

I didn’t know if I was ready.

I didn’t know how he’d react today.

Would he flinch again? Would he hide behind that older man with brown hair? Would he even remember me?

But I remembered him.

The way his fingers had gripped that pencil like it held his world together.

The way he glanced at me—not with suspicion, but like he had already recognized something in me I didn’t even know existed.

A caretaker.

Friend?

Maybe just someone who didn’t scream when he screamed, who didn’t walk away when he curled into himself.

By the time I reached the Malik estate, the morning sun was beginning to warm the marble gate.

The guard recognized me and opened the gate without questioning this time.

When the car entered the villa’s driveway, i felt a shift in the air—like the silence of wealth had its own language.

The same security guard nodded at me politely. I  nodded back, clutching my bag tightly, the memory of last night’s assault still fresh against my  skin. But i  walked tall.

Because today i  wasn’t a victim.

I  was someone’s caretaker

That felt strange too—being expected somewhere.

I stepped in, and a man-servant led me inside with a quiet nod.

No dramatic welcome this time. No Dilan Malik in a sharp suit teasing me.

Just a serene silence... and the sound of scribbles.

I turned the corner.

Dilan was already waiting in the hallway with a coffee mug in one hand and her phone in the other.

I  greeted her softly.

"Good morning, Snow White," Dilan said, giving me a tired smile. "I hope you’re ready. He’s been waiting for you.”

Noor blinked. “Dawood?”

Dilan nodded. “Didn’t sleep properly. Asked for your brother twice.”

Something lodged itself in my  throat. I nodded quietly and followed Dilan down the long corridor.

We stopped at a room with a half-closed door. The walls were a pale blue, almost calming. There were books, plush toys, medical equipment, and drawings scattered everywhere. I recognized the shaky lines of the sketch from last night among the ones pinned to a corkboard.

He was sitting cross-legged on the bed, arms wrapped around his sketchbook like a lifeline.

His head turned slowly as i  stepped in.

Our eyes met.

Dawood didn’t smile, but he didn’t turn away either.

That was enough.

I walked over, lowering myself carefully onto the rug beside his bed, keeping my  voice gentle.

"Good morning, Dawood..."

He didn’t answer, but he flipped open his sketchbook and started drawing.

I didn’t disturb him. Instead, i sat quietly, watching the boy—no, the soul—whose pain had been tucked behind silence and trembling hands.

And then… after a few minutes, he pushed the sketchbook slightly toward me.

He had drawn me.

Or something like me.

A girl in a long dupatta, with wide eyes and a broken smile, standing beside a boy with ink-smudged hands and a stethoscope around his neck.

My heart caught.

I  looked up at him, blinking back tears.

“Is that me?” i  asked softly.

He didn’t answer. But this time, he didn’t flinch when she gently touched the page.

He had drawn me and my brother.

I couldn’t speak. I just nodded, my heart shaking in my chest like it didn’t belong to me anymore.

And in that moment, with the morning light touching his hair and crayons scattered like broken promises between us, I realized something:

I wasn’t here just because I had no other choice.

I was here because maybe… just maybe… this child needed someone who had once been broken too.

And I was willing to try.

Even if I failed.

Even if I fell again.

Because some stories are not about saving.

They’re about sitting beside the wreckage.

And still choosing to stay.

....

Authors pov

Outside the Room

Dilan stood watching them from the slightly open door, arms crossed over her chest.

“Maybe she really is the one,” she murmured under her breath.

Her fingers tightened around her coffee mug.

Because she knew something Noor didn’t.

That sketch wasn’t new. He draw it for Taniya and himself,

He wanted to become a doctor so he could treat his tani maa but this world and people out there prove to be a monster in human body.

Dawood had drawn it before the tragedy fall on him in the name of student and teacher.

And only yesterday, he had colored it in—for the first time.

Noor's pov

My heart skipped a beat.

"He remembered?"

Dilan finally looked at me. "Of course, he did. He doesn’t forget people who are kind to him."

I swallowed the lump rising in my throat.

She reached for a paper on the table, slid it toward me. "These are the basic instructions. Medications, dietary preferences, seizure protocol. Don’t worry—I’ve kept a professional around to guide you through the first few days. You’ll meet her today. Her name’s Aarzoo. Child psychologist."

I stared at the list, overwhelmed. "I’m not trained for this, Dilan. What if I make a mistake?"

"You will," she said calmly, sipping her tea again. "But you won’t harm him. Because you actually care."

That stilled me.

After a beat, she added, "And because he’s already attached to you, it’s too late to bring someone else."

I looked at her sharply.

"You planned this?"

A hint of a smirk played on her lips. "Not everything. But I do trust my instincts. When I saw you that day in the hospital corridor—bleeding, scared, but still protective of another patient—I knew."

I lowered my gaze.

"You're giving me more credit than I deserve."

"No," she said, now serious. "I'm giving you exactly the credit you refuse to give yourself."

And with that, she stood. "Come. He’s in the sunroom. Drawing."

Dawood

When I entered the sunroom, it was flooded with soft light. The boy sat near the window, crayons scattered around him, sketchbook open.

He didn’t look up at first.

I sat quietly beside him on the rug, not touching anything.

Then he paused.

He turned to me slowly, eyes uncertain.

I smiled, despite the pain in my lip.

"Dawood," I said softly.

His fingers twitched.

I didn’t push. I just watched.

And then he picked up the crayon, leaned his head against my arm like a little cat… and started drawing again.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

He hadn’t forgotten me.

He had chosen me, in his own way.

And maybe that was enough to begin with.

As promised, she dialed a number and my brother got admitted to Ataturk Medical College.

She wanted me to stay here 24/7—but only if I could.

She even arranged a room for me near his, and a good one for my brother to shift into. But I denied.

No matter what, for some time, I have to show my face to Phupho. I don’t want to leave everything so fast—not when my brother hasn’t even started college yet.

I’m not doubtful... but after Fateh, it’s hard to believe in anyone.

She told me that their college will start on August 1st.

"Their?" I asked, confused.

“Yup. We admitted Dawood as well, in the same class as your brother,” she told me, sipping her tea.

Allah, she’s tea-addictive.

“Dawood?” I asked, still confused.

She looked at me and said,

“My baby wants to be a doctor too. That’s why he got excited when you told him your brother will become one,” she said, gulping hard.

“You know, Noor, in India we have the same power as here. We tried to send him to school, but children his age used to bully him. They laughed at the way he stammered.

They even locked him in a bathroom as a prank,” she tried to control her tears.

“Then we took the other route. We hired a home tutor. But she was the real witch.

And after her, my once-dreaming baby turned into a scared kitten—afraid of new people, especially women.”

“Kya kiya tha us aurat ne?” I asked softly.

“She wronged him… in our very own home, under so much security and with guards around,” she cried this time.

And my heart sank. Boys can get wronged too?

She wiped her tears.

“You wanted to know why I chose you?” she asked.

I nodded.

“Because when I saw you in that cabin, in that bastard’s hold… I remembered the vulnerable days of Dawood.

You told me how you were fooled by him. Your innocence won my heart.

A woman like you could never hurt Dawood.”

She wiped her tears again.

“Enough rona-dho

na for today, Snow White,” she teased.

I chuckled at her reaction.

“Plus, you can work a morning shift at the hospital—so you can look after Dawood and your brother too,” she said, putting her cup down.

I smiled too.

That finally my brother will step forward for his dream..

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