He stands there—completely confused.
His thoughts are clouded, and his heart feels heavier than ever before. He doesn't know what to do. For a few moments, he just… stands still, lost. Then slowly, he takes a deep breath—the kind of breath you take when you're about to make a choice that could change everything.
He stares ahead with determination and speaks softly to himself:
"If I'm wrong…
Then this decision—this step—will be the worst mistake of my life.
But… if I'm right…
Then maybe, just maybe, I'll find Abid."
And with that, he makes a choice.
Without hesitation, he walks away for a moment and returns with something in his hands—a tool, anything he can use. Then, gathering every bit of courage left in him, he bends down…
And begins to dig into the grave.
The earth is cold. The silence, terrifying.
Each handful of dirt feels heavier than the last.
And then…
He sees it.
His hands freeze. His chest tightens.
Inside the makeshift grave, there is a small body.
A child.
His eyes widen in shock, his heartbeat racing. He stares at the lifeless form, unable to move. But… it's still not clear. He can't say for sure if it's Abid.
The face, the features—he can't recognize them.
He wants to deny it.
He wants to believe it's not him.
But then—his eyes fall upon the child's there is a mark of something on his throat and hand.
Burned. Scarred.
And in that moment, a memory strikes him like lightning.
That same hand. That same burn.
He remembers…
This was the very boy who, long ago, was struck harshly by Abdullah—the first one he punished. Back then, Abdul Rehman had noticed the same burn mark on his hand.
Now… staring at that same scar, Abdul Rehman knows the truth.
It's him.
It's Abid.
The tool in his hand slips and falls to the ground.
And with it…
He collapses.
He falls to his knees.
And then… he breaks.
Tears rush down his face as he sobs uncontrollably. His cries echo into the empty surroundings—loud, raw, filled with pain.
"Abid… my son… I'm sorry…"
He stays there, weeping over the small, lifeless body. A storm of guilt, love, and helplessness rages inside him.
After what feels like an eternity, he gently lifts the boy in his arms, holding him like a father holding his child for the first time… and the last.
With trembling steps, he carries him away.
Abdul Rehman doesn't delay. He takes the body to someone who performs the Islamic ghusl—the sacred purification for the dead.
Because if this was to be the end…
Then Abid would be buried with dignity, honor, and the respect his short life deserved.
He buries him completely, following all the proper Islamic rituals — with respect, with tears in his eyes, and with trembling hands.
After completing the burial, Abdul Rehman makes his way to Umm-e-Farwah's home. His steps are heavy, his heart even heavier.
As soon as she sees him at the door, her eyes widen with hope. She rushes forward and says eagerly,
"Baba, what happened? Did you find Abid? Please tell me, where is he? You said he would come back… you promised."
But then she sees something in Abdul Rehman's eyes — a deep sorrow, a grief she had never seen in him before.
She notices the unshed tears glistening in his eyes, and before he can say a word, he falls to his knees in front of her, his voice breaking with emotion.
"My daughter… forgive me," he says, his hands shaking, his head lowered in shame.
"I tried… I really tried to bring him back to you. I truly did. But…"
Her breath catches in her throat. She steps back slightly and whispers,
"But? But what, Baba? Please… tell me what you're trying to say…"
His voice trembles, almost refusing to come out, but he finally speaks the truth — the unbearable truth.
"But… he is not alive."
The moment the words leave his mouth, it feels as if someone stabbed her heart with a knife — a sharp, cold blade of reality.
Her face turns pale, her body freezes for a second… and then, like a dam breaking, her sorrow floods out. She breaks down, crying uncontrollably.
Her knees weaken and she collapses into his arms, her tears soaking his shoulder as she wails,
"No! No… this can't be true… this can't be real… Abid can't be gone… he just can't…"
And Abdul Rehman holds her tightly, silently blaming himself with every heartbeat — for not being faster, not being stronger, not being able to protect the one she loved the most.
Umm-e-Farwah's knees buckled beneath her as the truth landed like a thunderclap in her chest.
"He's… gone?" she whispered, her voice breaking like glass.
Abdul Rehman didn't have to say it again. She had seen it in his eyes — the helplessness, the sorrow. The kind of pain words can't carry. Her heart felt like it had been torn open, every beat echoing with her brother's name.
She collapsed to the floor, her hands trembling. The world spun around her, but all she could see was Abid.
Her Abid.
The boy who used to chase her around the yard with a wooden sword. The boy who stole her sweets and then hugged her so tightly she couldn't stay angry. The boy who used to cry when she got hurt, even if it was just a scrape on her knee.
"He wasn't just my brother," she said through tears. "He was my best friend, my shadow… my other half."
Her voice shook. "do you know, Baba?" she looked up at Abdul Rehman. "When he was five, he got lost in the market and when we found him, he was crying and calling my name. not of anyone else only — mine."
She covered her mouth to stifle the sobs. "He used to say, 'Farwah, when I grow up, I'll build you a palace so high it touches the stars.' He was always dreaming… always smiling."
Tears streamed down her face as memories flooded her — the way he used to fall asleep with his head in her lap, the way he used to wake her up before Fajr just to sit and talk, the way he would hold her hand when he was scared of the dark.
"He never said goodbye," she whispered. "He promised me he'd come back. He never broke his promises…"
Her voice cracked under the weight of loss. "I should've protected him. I should've known something was wrong."
She gripped the small item Abdul Rehman had brought — the last trace of Abid — and held it against her chest as if holding onto him.
"I'll never hear his laugh again… never fight with him over silly things… never feel his hand pulling mine again."
She looked up at the sky and murmured, "You took my brother, Ya Allah… but please… keep him smiling. Like he always did. Just… keep him smiling."
Abid was not Abdul Rehman's son, but Umm Farwah's words and his calling Abdul Rehman a father were making him feel as if Abid was his son.
Question For readers :
What would you do if the person you loved the most disappeared… and returned only as a memory?"
Written By
Sabir Ali
Thanks For reading