The car moved slowly through the busy roads of Kuala Lumpur, the headlights cutting through the night. The city was alive outside, but inside the car there was only a heavy silence. Faisal kept both hands steady on the steering wheel. "Zainab. Don't be upset. Ibrahim was caught up today. That's why he couldn't be at the funeral. You know how many things he has on his shoulders."
They were coming back from Nafisa's funeral. Zainab sat with her white frock falling over her knees, her eyes fixed on the window. In Malaysia, people did not wear black for funerals. They wore soft, simple colours—white, cream, grey—something sober to show respect.
The streetlights flashed past her face one by one, lighting her sad eyes for a moment before leaving them in shadow again. She shook her head slowly.
"I'm not upset," she whispered. Then after a pause, her voice grew softer, almost breaking, "At least that's what I keep telling myself…"
Her hand touched the glass window as if she wanted to hold onto the world outside. "But the truth is, I am upset. Ibrahim should have come. Even ten minutes would have been enough. Just to show his face, just to stand there with us. Didn't he see how much Nayla means to me? Didn't he think about her? She's only a girl, Faisal… and now she has no one."
She closed her eyes for a moment, her voice trembling. "Her mother is gone. What will Nayla do now? How can she even sleep tonight without hearing her mother's voice?"
Faisal's eyes softened, "You're worried for her, I can see that. But listen… children are stronger than we think. Nayla won't be alone. Nafisa's sister came and she took Nayla with them. She will have a roof, Zainab. At least close to family. Though the so called family didn't care about her before. But they are doing now."
But Zainab turned from the window and faced him, "I know children move on. I did too. When my father died, I thought my whole world was broken. But after a few months, life just… went back to normal. People stopped talking about him. They stopped remembering. And I realized something very cruel— People forget the dead so easily. Too easily."
The car rolled through the gates of Rahman Mansion and came to a smooth stop. She stepped out without a word and walked quickly inside.
Faisal typed a quick message to Ibrahim: Your sister is not in good mood. Better wear a helmet before she starts talking.
Ibrahim's phone buzzed instantly on the dining table. He picked it up while chewing slowly. He was in the middle of dinner. Aliya and Samir had already eaten and left, so the table was quiet except for his own fork tapping against the plate.
He read the message and smirked. And just then, Zainab walked in through the hall. She ordered a maid, "Bring me a plate."
She didn't even glance at her brother. She just sat opposite him, opened the napkin, and carefully placed it on her lap. The maid came with the serving dishes, set food in front of her, and left. The silence stretched. Ibrahim waited, ready to face her anger. He was already preparing answers in his head.
"How did you convince Nayla's aunt to come to the funeral?"
The fork in Ibrahim's hand froze halfway to his mouth. He blinked, caught off guard.
Zainab continued, "It was strange. All these years, Nafisa aunt's family never once looked at her. Because she dared to marry a man of her choice. They abandoned her. But today—suddenly—they showed up like saints. They stood there at the funeral, did all the customs, carried her body, prayed over her, and then, as if it wasn't enough, they took Nayla home with them. Do you know how odd that looked? Even for one minute, I thought maybe they did it because of money. But then I remembered, aunt will not get a single cent from her life insurance because of suicide. No insurance company in the world gives money for that. So if her family is suddenly so generous… it must be because they got money from somewhere else. And who else can be the source of that money… other than my very rich, very clever big brother?"
Ibrahim slowly placed his fork on the plate. He dabbed his lips with the napkin, "Why are you acting like a lawyer tonight? You sound exactly like those TV reporters who keep shouting, trying to create a story even when there's nothing there."
"Don't twist my words." Zainab calmly picked up her spoon and ate a few bites of rice, not even laughing at his sarcasm. "I asked a simple question. How did they suddenly care about a woman they abandoned for years? Don't tell me this was their kindness."
Ibrahim chuckled, shaking his head, "So what do you want me to say, hmm? That I personally paid those people? That I dragged them by the neck and forced them to stand at that funeral? Should I also add that I put a gun to their heads and taught them how to cry properly?"
Zainab set her spoon down, looking at him steadily. "Ibi, you can do anything. You can move people like pieces on a chessboard. Nothing is impossible for you."
"Listen, if Nafisa's family finally decided to act like human beings, that's their business, not mine. Don't stare at me like I'm the magician behind some curtain pulling strings. I don't run charity shows for people who never mattered. If I really wanted to control that funeral, Zainab, believe me—it would have looked very, very different. There would've been cameras, politicians, banners." He leaned back in his chair, picking up his glass of water. "But if it makes you sleep better, fine—blame me for everything. Tomorrow if it rains, I'm sure you'll say I paid the clouds too."
Zainab stared at him for a moment, "Ibi, you have such a weird way of accepting your actions. You act like you're joking, but deep down you admit everything."
Ibrahim gave her an amused look. "Ah, now comes the lecture."
"You know, I really wished for you to marry early. I thought maybe a wife would make you calmer, maybe even happier. But now? Now I think—never marry anyone."
"Why's that? You don't want a sister-in-law to gossip with? Someone to complain to about me?"
Zainab stabbed her fork into a piece of chicken and looked him straight in the eye. "Because your wife would go insane one day. Insane from carrying the weight of the things you do. Future Mrs. Ibrahim wouldn't last a week anyway. She will leave you. So it's better if you don't marry at all. Spare an innocent woman from becoming your next victim."
"So thoughtful of you, thinking about my future wife's mental health. But sadly, women don't attract me."
"Ibi, enough of this light talk. I wanted to say something serious. Why didn't you attend the funeral today? I told you to come sooner before leaving… but you never showed up."
Ibrahim slowly chewed the last bite of his food, sighed, "Sorry, little one… but I didn't think it was important. I already visited your friend's mother in the morning before the tragedy happened. That was enough. It wasn't necessary for me to stand at a funeral, pretending. I did the best I could—covered hospital bills, sent medicines, even made sure Nayla will be alright. Don't expect anything more from me, Zainab. That's all I had to give."
"It's not true that you didn't find it important to attend." She reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded white page and placed it on the table, sliding it towards him.
Ibrahim looked at the paper, frowning. "And what is this supposed to mean?"
Zainab tapped the folded sheet with her finger, giving him a signal. "You didn't attend because you were happy that Nafisa aunt died."
Ibrahim's hand tightened slightly on the fork. He raised an eyebrow but said nothing, just opened the folded page. His eyes fell on the paper—and for the first time that evening, his face changed.
It was a pencil sketch. A man's face. A strong jaw, thick brows, the faint shadow of a beard. Zafar. Their Dad.
"From when did you start drawing this good? Your hand was never this skilled."
Zainab shook her head slowly. "It's not mine. I got it from Nayla's study desk."
At that second, Ibrahim's whole world stopped moving.
"I asked her, Ibi. I asked Nayla who this man was. And she told me…" Zainab's voice dropped into a whisper. "She told me—'this is my father.'"
Ibrahim gulped, his throat suddenly dry. The day he prayed would never come… had finally arrived. For years, he buried the secret deep inside, sealed in a coffin of silence. But tonight, across the dining table, with his sister's sharp eyes fixed on him and that cursed sketch lying between them, the coffin cracked open.
"Where did you say you found this?"
Zainab repeated, "On Nayla's desk. She said it's her father. Strange, isn't it, Ibi? The same lines, the same face… our father's face. Tell me—how many fathers can share the same one?"
With a sharp rip, Ibrahim tore it into pieces. "Kids draw nonsense all the time. Maybe she copied an old photo of him from somewhere. It takes two seconds to type a name into Google and search for an image. There are hundreds of pictures of Dad floating around. But remember this—Dad is ours, Zainab. Ours."
"No. She didn't copy it," Zainab said quietly, but every word cut deep. "She knew him. She described his voice… the way he smelled of tobacco. Things only a daughter could know. And nobody lies about their father, Ibi. Even I never knew Dad was addicted to tobacco. He never did it in front of me. Or maybe I was too young back then—I was only eight, I wouldn't recognize the smell. But Nayla… she's two years older than me. Maybe she knew. God knows. Dad had a good relationship with her. Unlike me."
Ibrahim suddenly pushed his chair back, standing so abruptly the wooden legs screeched against the marble floor. For a moment he looked like a different man — the calm brother gone. His eyes burned as he said through clenched teeth, "I should've erased Nayla the moment he came to know she's your friend. But I let her breathe too long, and now her existence is choking us. But it's not too late—I can still silence her."
"Ibi, how can you say that out loud? How can you sit in front of me and talk about killing a child like it is business?" Zainab's fingers tightened on her napkin. "I respect you. I love you. But if you move one step toward Nayla — if you hurt her in any way — then forget I'm your sister. I will leave you. I will walk away from everything and never return. You can keep the money, the power, the respect — but do not make me carry the weight of a dead child because you wanted to protect a lie." She shook her head. "She's not yours to destroy."
Ibrahim opened his mouth to answer, to cut her down, but Zainab did not stop —this time rising from her chair with finality, "I don't want to know if Dad's death was natural… or if there's another story behind Nafisa aunt's death. I know you had your reasons for whatever you did—and I'll carry that secret by not knowing it. We will never talk about this again, Ibi. Forget this conversation. Dad has only two sons and one daughter—hidden from the world. And Nayla? She's just my friend. My close friend. Keep it that way."
Zainab slowly turned from the dining table, "I'm tired… I need some time to process everything. Good night, Ibi."
Ibrahim stood frozen, his eyes following her as she walked away. For a moment, he just couldn't believe it—his little sister had grown up so much, and now she could see through him, understand things about him that no one else could.
Quietly, he asked, "How do you even know about Dad's death?"
Zainab paused mid-step and looked back over her shoulder. "Did you say something, Ibi? I didn't hear you."
At that moment, Aliya appeared from her room, walking softly down the corridor in a long, flowing nightgown. She looked at Zainab and said with a gentle scold, "Zainab, you're coming home late, dear."
Ibrahim realized instantly why she pretended not to hear. Aliya was giving her a goodnight kiss on the forehead, teasing lightly about not finishing her dinner.
Zainab asked for some dessert to be sent to her room. It was her habit. She had always loved sweet dishes, especially those made by Aliya.
Afterthat she walked up the stairs to her room. Once inside, Zainab moved to the big balcony and opened the door. The night air floated in, carrying the faint scent of the city. She lowered herself onto the swing chair, phone in her hand, and stared out into the night sky.
She wanted to talk to someone—but who? Her mind hesitated. She knew exactly who she didn't want to call, the one caller she had tried so hard to avoid. And yet… curiosity won over caution.
Taking a deep breath, she pressed the call button. The phone rang once, then a voice came through as if he had been waiting for her. "See, I told you'd call. I don't just predict the future, Zainab—I know yours. And right now, it tells me you couldn't sleep without hearing my voice."