Epilogue
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He was pacing back and forth restlessly, a storm swirling in his blue eyes.
Again and again, he glanced toward the ICU door. The doctor had not told him anything yet—
and that was what worried him the most.
He no longer had the strength to lose anyone…
especially not Emma.
Beside him, Abdul Aleem Sahab and Derrick were trying to console him.
The red light turned off, and the ICU door finally opened. Doctors stepped out. Seeing them, he rushed forward, his heart pounding violently in his chest, afraid of what news they might bring.
"Look, sir, we tried our best. But the poison injected into her—we don't know what type it was. It has already destroyed many of her cells. We did everything we could. Now… all that's left is for you to pray."
The doctor placed a hand on his shoulder, trying to reassure him, but his tone carried despair.
"Can I see her?" he asked quickly before the doctor could leave.
"Yes, but only for five—"
That was enough for him.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside. There she lay, even weaker in the hospital gown.
If someone had asked him what he thought of hospital gowns, he would have said they looked like shrouds. And right now, she too was wrapped in that shroud-like garment.
Her body was connected to countless wires.
The heart monitor was beeping, proof that she was alive—but the rhythm was growing weaker.
An oxygen mask covered her face.
He just stood there, watching, without blinking, barely breathing.
Then suddenly, her body jolted violently.
The machines began to scream alarms.
Doctors rushed inside.
But before he stepped out, he caught sight of a thin trickle of blood running from her nose.
From outside the glass panel, he stood frozen, watching as doctors shocked her body with electric jolts.
But he couldn't take it anymore.
His courage broke.
He moved aside, his hands raking through his hair as he walked anxiously up and down the corridor. Then suddenly, he stopped.
"Prayer… yes… I need to… pray."
He hurried toward the prayer room. Dropping to the floor, placing his forehead against the ground, he wept as he begged forgiveness for all his sins.
He pleaded with the Almighty to give life to the soul lying inside that room.
His prayer carried a desperate intensity.
This was the only door left that could save her.
Tears poured from his eyes like a flood.
---
_______________________________
There was white light everywhere—
the same kind of glow that spreads across the world after sunrise.
She found herself dressed in white, the hem brushing her feet.
On her head rested a crown, and her face glowed within it.
Everything around her sparkled.
Everything was white.
She walked forward—toward a place of even greater radiance.
The ground beneath her was not solid; it was as soft as cotton, perhaps even softer.
Step by step, she drifted ahead, until her being seemed to dissolve into that light.
Before her appeared a staircase—white, winding in circles upward until it vanished into the clouds.
Butterflies fluttered around her, swirling joyously as if to welcome her.
Then she heard a voice:
به راه پله عشق خوش آمدید
(Welcome to the Stairway of Love)
She didn't know where the voice came from, but she understood its meaning.
She placed her foot on the first step—
and thus began her journey up the Stairway of Love.
---
_______________________________
Five years later…
The wheel of time had turned. Destinies had shifted.
Hoor and Aahil had returned to the haveli. Their return restored Daji, who had grown old and frail, back to health. He tried asking Aahil for forgiveness, but Aahil never gave him the chance.
Fahad and Ayesha had been married—yet neither was happy.
How could they be, after committing a sin as dark as slander?
Soon after, Fahad shifted to Dubai with Ayesha.
As for Mehak, she remained much the same. At first, she tried to trouble Hoorain, but Aahil quickly put her in her place. Later, after her marriage in another city, her visits became rare.
Ahmed and Muskan got engaged.
And Dayan Sahab became the beloved of the entire household.
Even Olivia and Derrick eventually married.
John had stopped Olivia from revealing the truth to Derrick, but in the end, John himself told him everything. Derrick, with his eccentric personality, only understood after much drama.
John could have hidden the truth, but he knew lies never stayed buried. The past—and the mistakes made in it—always returned.
Jaffar Sahab's death drove Shazia Begum half-mad. Hanan's death completed her ruin, and she now spent her final days in an asylum.
And John?
Oh, don't get worried—
I'll tell you.
But even if I don't, I know you'll sneak to the end to check, so suspense is pointless, isn't it?
Emma regained consciousness—
a miracle, according to the doctors.
John and Emma had remarried, and now they lived in peace. On their wedding day itself, John reunited Emma with her brother, filling her with joy and relief.
As for Peter—
The man he owed money to (for alcohol) had beaten him brutally, even thrown acid on his face, scarring one side. Believing him dead, they left him.
A stranger helped him—a man Peter had once robbed. Yet that man forgave him, paid his debts, and even arranged his treatment.
Peter later told Emma how he used to sneak into her room at night, climbing through the window, and how he had written her a letter—about mortgaging the house and confessing his sins.
That very letter had ended up in John's hands, through which John discovered the man who had helped Peter.
Peter also knew of John and Emma's marriage. His attempt to tie Emma up and blackmail her was nothing but an act—because the man who had helped him had given his guarantee to John.
And now you're wondering who that man was?
Well, it was none other than Dr. Ibrahim.
Through him, Peter embraced Islam—
and Peter was no longer Peter.
He was now Khubayb.
John's mother and Abdul Aleem Sahab lived with John and Emma.
And now only "D" remained.
Who was "D"?
Why had he helped John and Emma?
That… will be revealed in the next part.
Yes, there will be a next part.
But until then, wait—
and savor this moment.
Because—
Past is history.
Future is a mystery.
Today is a gift… that's why it's called the present.
---
---
"This filthy offspring has to be mine…" he muttered under his breath as he stormed down the stairs. A laptop was tucked under his arm, his face burning with rage.
"What happened…??" His wife saw the distorted lines of anger on his face and instantly understood—the children must have created another disaster. Otherwise, there was hardly anyone who could truly irritate him. She barely managed to control her laughter.
"Look at your rotten eggs' masterpiece!" He shoved the laptop he had been clutching into her hands. The entire thing was dripping wet.
Olivia glanced at it. The laptop was drenched in water—completely soaked through. But despite its condition, it still held its form. She couldn't stop her laughter from bursting out.
Seeing her laugh, he advanced toward her with a dangerous expression.
"Tell me… this wasn't your doing, was it?" His suspicious eyes were on her as he placed the ruined laptop on the kitchen counter. It was useless now anyway.
She took a step back, her eyes darting around for something she could use to defend herself.
At last, her back hit the kitchen counter. He leaned toward her, and at that exact moment, she grabbed the open flour container beside her and emptied it all over him.
"Mooom… Downnn…"
From behind, their sons—Derrick's so-called "rotten eggs"—charged in with their water guns, rescuing their mother from their tyrant father.
So here you have Derrick—drenched in flour and water, standing before you like a white, sticky mixture.
You might be surprised—Derrick, in this state? Well, don't be. Junior Derricks, who were even more mischievous than their father, had arrived. Twins, no less.
Though small, they never let their father come near their mother. The moment he tried, they instantly transformed into her little protectors.
Derrick turned to glare at his offspring, his eyes flashing bloodthirstily. Those blue- and gray-eyed monkeys had, since birth, erased the word "peace" from his dictionary—completely.
They did everything possible to ruin his work. For example, they'd sleep peacefully with their mother all day long but the moment their father tried to nap, they'd switch on their crying soundtrack. And they wouldn't stop until he was nearly in tears himself.
When they learned to walk, it got even worse.
The world became their playground. Sometimes they'd scribble all over their father's files, and sometimes they'd use his clothes as paper, decorating them with colorful designs.
But truthfully, their enmity toward their father wasn't unjustified. After all, he hadn't exactly treated them kindly.
He'd snack on chips while feeding them apples.
If they cried, he'd tape their mouths shut.
When it came to food, Derrick showed no mercy—tying them up and eating in front of them while they cried for a share.
And you know Derrick when it comes to food—who could expect fairness from him?
Olivia glanced at Derrick's stormy expression, then at her little protectors. The very next moment, she scooped them up in her arms and ran toward the lawn.
Derrick followed, spotting the gardener watering plants—and there it was, the perfect weapon.
He grabbed the pipe and sprayed water on all three of them. Laughing and shrieking, they ran around trying to dodge the spray.
Their joyous laughter echoed through the air.
---
He stood in front of the mirror, spraying perfume on himself, when he caught his wife's reflection. Her long hair was loose, a brush in her right hand, and her face clouded with displeasure as she glared at him.
Seeing her pout, he smiled. That only made her pout deeper.
She tossed the brush onto the table with deliberate annoyance and turned to leave. But just in time, he caught her by the hair and pulled her close.
"See? This is exactly why I don't let you cut your hair," he said, his hazel eyes still holding her glare.
Without another word, he positioned her in front of the mirror and began tying her hair.
She looked at him through the mirror, her face pretending anger, but in truth, her eyes brimmed with love.
"What are you staring at?" he asked, his focus seemingly on her hair, though he already knew the answer.
"You're overflowing with love, aren't you? That's why you're staring like this," she retorted sarcastically, rolling her eyes.
"If my tying your ponytail makes you confess love, then it's not such a bad deal." He tied the final knot with mock seriousness, replying to her sarcasm.
"Do it yourself first, then tell me," she shot back, rolling her eyes again.
"What should I do?" he feigned ignorance, turning her face toward him as he studied her hair.
"Confess your love," she demanded instantly.
"Who said I love you?" he asked with complete seriousness. Her heart sank—she felt like banging her head against the wall.
So many years had passed, yet he had never once confessed his love in words. Yes, his blue eyes always revealed everything, but still…
"John!!!" she cried out in frustration.
"Yes, Mrs. John?" he replied, calmly focused on tying his shoes.
"I don't want to talk to you anymore."
"That's fine with me—as long as you don't talk to anyone else but me," he said, handing her his tie, his blue eyes locking on hers.
Emma took the tie from him, tied it around his neck, and turned to leave—but he pulled her close again.
"Eman…" he whispered.
And just like that, all her anger melted away. Every time he said her name, her heart raced wildly, a smile spread across her lips, and colors bloomed on her face.
And in that very moment, he too was lost in those colors—until a knock on the door interrupted them, followed by his mother's voice.
"It must be Umar," she said.
Their three-year-old son—his father's exact copy in looks and temperament—was outside.
Sure enough, when the door opened, Umar, in the nanny's arms, stretched out eagerly to come to his mother.
Emma took him, and the child immediately calmed down, gazing at her with his wide blue eyes. His little fists tangled in her hair.
Honestly, what was it with father and son and their obsession with her hair?
"I should get going," John said, kissing Emma's forehead first, then leaning down to kiss Umar—
who was glaring at his father furiously, as if asking, How dare you touch my mother?
Truly, the boy was his father's son.
---
"What are you thinking about…?"
They were walking along the shore, her hand resting in his. The cool waves of the sea touched their feet and retreated. The setting sun painted everything in shades of orange, casting a strange fiery glow on the surroundings.
"You're thinking about Iman…" Hoor teased, glancing at him. Just hearing Iman's name twisted Aahil's expression.
They had come all the way to London only because of her insistence that they must meet Ema. Even now, after dinner with her, they had decided to stop here for a walk.
"It'll only remain a wish—that one day Hoor would say, I was thinking about you." Seeing his face, Hoor burst into laughter.
The roar of the waves…
The chirping of birds flying back to their nests…
And above all, Hoor's ringing laughter—
Could there be a melody more beautiful than this? Aahil thought to himself as he watched her face.
Hoor felt the weight of his deep gaze and shyly looked away.
Turning her toward the sea, Aahil slipped his arms around her from behind and rested his chin on her shoulder. At this hour, the place wasn't crowded—just one or two people far in the distance.
But Hoor was flustered. Aahil had never behaved like this in a public place before. Her cheeks instantly flushed red, her lashes trembled, and her heart pounded so hard she thought it might burst out of her chest.
Aahil, however, studied the colors spreading across her face with great interest.
"So, Mrs. Aahil… don't you have something to tell me?" he asked seriously, pressing his smile against his lips.
Hoor, lowering her confused eyes, looked at him questioningly.
"Tell you what…?" She racked her brain but couldn't recall anything important she'd forgotten to share.
"That… I'm going to be a father."
At that, Hoor turned crimson with embarrassment. Of course Aahil had figured it out. To hide herself from his gaze, she covered her face with both hands. After five years, Allah had finally blessed them with His precious gift.
"Hahahahaha!" Aahil laughed freely at her reaction.
Taking her hands gently in his, he said, "Hoor, I can't even describe how happy I am today… You've completed me. Ever since you came into my life, everything has fallen into place. No amount of gratitude to Allah is enough for blessing me with such an invaluable treasure."
Hoor stayed silent, listening to him. She didn't have the courage to speak—his intense gaze was making her heart race uncontrollably.
At last, fate came to her rescue, because Aahil's intentions had clearly been leading elsewhere. His phone rang.
Irritated, he glanced at the screen and frowned when he saw the caller's name. But seeing it was Daji, he quickly answered.
"Yes, Daji…" he said hurriedly.
"You forgot to greet me first, young man…" Daji's stern voice scolded him. Aahil rubbed his head in embarrassment.
"Sorry… Assalamu Alaikum," he said, shooting Hoor a glare.
She had been planning to quietly slip away, but his sharp look made her pout and turn her face stubbornly toward the sea.
The evening shadows grew deeper, and with them, the chill in the air. Feeling cold, she rubbed her arms to warm herself—just then, Aahil draped his coat over her shoulders. He also wrapped his arm around her as he turned back toward the hotel.
His face was unusually serious.
"What happened?" Hoor asked when he remained silent.
"Daji has ordered us to return. Diyan is crying," he said, helping her into the car before steering it toward the hotel.
They had left Diyan behind in Pakistan. The reason was simple: he caught colds too easily, and besides, he had school—and exams were just around the corner.
Hoor turned her neck to look at him while he was on the phone, confirming tomorrow's flight booking.
Sensing her gaze, Aahil looked back at her. After ending the call, he took her hand in his left hand, lifted it to his lips, and pressed a kiss against the back of it—his eyes still fixed on the road ahead.
Hoor blushed again, shyly lowering her eyes.
---
There was a silence, then poetry:
A flame… then ashes…
A desert… yet thirst…
A void without end,
A dead-end street…
Emptiness, loneliness—then silence…
And the whole scene turned to ash.
All was dust.
There was love—
Only love.
— (ZB)
(The End)
.