Scene 1 – The Knock on the Door
The rain had already begun its steady assault against the tin roof long before the knock came. Each drop was a tiny hammer, rattling the rusted sheets of metal, dripping down the crooked walls of the single-room dwelling that had been Haris and Amina's only home for the last two years. The lamp in the corner flickered with a weak yellow glow, struggling against the damp.
Haris sat cross-legged on the floor, his head bowed over a small notebook filled with numbers—debts and payments he tried to balance though they never did. Amina, thin and tired, folded Zain's work clothes for the next morning. She hummed quietly, as if to keep despair from taking full hold.
Then came the knock. A sharp, deliberate pounding on the warped wooden door.
Haris froze, his pencil hovering above the page. He didn't need to ask who it was. He had been dreading this visit for weeks.
"Allah reham…" he whispered under his breath. He glanced at his wife. "Don't say a word unless I ask you."
Amina looked at him, her face pale. "It's the landlord, isn't it?"
Before Haris could reply, the door was pushed open without permission. A tall man with an umbrella tucked under his arm stepped inside, shaking droplets of rain onto the floor. Behind him loomed a younger helper, carrying a folded eviction notice. The landlord's lips curled with impatience.
"Haris sahib," the man said, his voice smooth but cruel, "I gave you enough time. Three months' rent unpaid. You know what this means."
Haris rose to his feet slowly. He kept his voice soft, deferential. "Kareem bhai, I begged you for a little more time. My son works day and night at the factory. Next week, insha'Allah, we'll—"
"Next week? You've said that every week for two months!" Kareem's voice rose above the thunder outside. He glanced around the crumbling walls, his eyes cold. "This room could earn me triple the rent with another tenant. You think pity feeds my children?"
Zain, who had been silent on his charpai in the corner, stood up now. His shirt was still stained with soot and sweat from the glass factory furnace. He stepped forward, fists clenched.
"Don't raise your voice at my father," Zain said firmly. "We'll pay you. I swear it."
Kareem smirked. "Swear all you like, boy. Swear to the rain, to the empty cupboards, to your bleeding hands. But swearing doesn't fill my pocket. Out. Tonight."
Amina gasped. "In this storm? Where will we go?"
"That is not my problem," Kareem said flatly. He signaled to his helper, who unfolded the eviction notice and slapped it against the door frame.
"Tomorrow morning I will lock this place," Kareem continued. "By then, I want you gone."
And with that, he turned and walked into the rain, his umbrella snapping open like the wing of a crow.
The room fell silent but for the hiss of rain and the distant rumble of thunder.
Scene 2 – The Family's Desperation
Zain kicked the door shut, his chest heaving. "I'll kill him one day," he muttered.
"Don't speak like that," Haris said sharply. He lowered himself back to the floor, his joints cracking. "Anger won't keep us dry tonight."
Amina pressed her hands against her face. "Ya Allah, what sin did I commit to deserve this? Always moving, always thrown out like garbage."
Zain turned to her, his tone softening. "Ammi, don't cry. I'll find another place by tomorrow."
"Another place?" Haris laughed bitterly. "With what money? Do you think landlords are lining up to house paupers like us?"
Zain's eyes darkened. "I'll work double shifts at the factory. Triple, if I must. Let me bleed for it."
Amina touched his arm, shaking her head. "Your hands are already scarred, beta. You'll break yourself."
Silence again. Only the dripping of water through a crack in the ceiling filled the space. A puddle had already formed in one corner of the room.
Finally, Haris closed his notebook with a sigh. "We'll gather what little we have. Tomorrow, we'll leave. Allah is witness to our struggle."
Scene 3 – The Packing
They worked through the night, packing their lives into sacks. It did not take long. Two sacks of clothing, a cooking pot, a single blanket, Haris's notebook, and Zain's few spare shirts. That was all.
The rain grew heavier, battering the tin roof so loudly it was hard to hear each other. The lantern sputtered, casting long shadows that made the cramped room feel like a cave.
As Amina folded her last dress, she whispered, "Zain… you're past thirty now. All your friends are married, some with children. Look at you, still burdened with us. Maybe this is Allah's curse."
"Don't ever say that," Zain said quickly, his jaw tight. "You and Abba are not a burden. You are my life."
Haris, overhearing, said nothing. But deep inside, shame burned like acid. His son should have been free to live his own life. Instead, he was chained to theirs, dragged through misery after misery.
Scene 4 – The Long Walk
By dawn, they stepped out into the storm. Their sacks were slung over their shoulders, the blanket wrapped tightly in plastic to keep it dry. The landlord's helper watched them from across the street with a satisfied smirk, waiting to put a lock on the door.
The streets of the slum had turned to rivers. Children splashed barefoot through muddy water, their laughter harsh against the misery of the evicted family. Stray dogs fought over scraps near the garbage heaps. The smell of sewage mixed with wet earth filled the air.
"Where to now?" Amina asked, shivering.
Zain walked ahead, his shirt plastered to his back. "The masjid by the railway tracks. They sometimes let travelers sleep in the veranda."
Haris coughed. His chest rattled with age. "If only Allah would grant us one roof that does not collapse on us, one landlord who does not spit at us."
"Patience, Abba," Zain said gently. "The night is always darkest before Fajr."
But even as he spoke, he felt the weight of hopelessness pressing down. His words were for their comfort, not his belief.
Scene 5 – Shelter at the Mosque
The mosque stood like an island amid the floodwaters, its green dome dripping rain. The imam, a kindly man with a white beard, recognized Zain and allowed them to rest in the veranda.
They spread their single blanket on the floor. Amina leaned against the wall, exhausted, her eyes closing almost immediately. Haris coughed himself into a shallow sleep.
Zain remained awake, staring at the ceiling beams, listening to the rain hammer down. His hands throbbed with cuts from the glass factory. He remembered Kareem's mocking voice. He remembered his mother's tears.
And deep inside, an anger coiled—an anger he did not dare show.
"Ya Allah," he whispered, "give me strength. Or take me away."
The rain answered with silence.
Scene 6 – The Stranger's Warning
Just before dawn, as Zain sat by the mosque gate, a ragged old man approached. His beard was tangled, his eyes bright with feverish intensity. He carried a wooden staff and leaned close to Zain.
"You have been cast out," the man said softly, almost kindly. "But sometimes, what seems like loss is a path prepared for you."
Zain frowned. "Do I know you, baba?"
The old man shook his head. "No. But I know the house you will find next. Be careful. Not every roof is a blessing. Some are traps."
Before Zain could ask more, the man walked into the rain and vanished into the maze of alleys.
Zain sat frozen, unease creeping into his bones. He told himself it was the rambling of a madman. Yet the words clung to him like wet clothes:
Not every roof is a blessing. Some are traps.
Scene 7 – The Dawn Prayer
When the call to prayer echoed through the wet streets, Haris and Amina stirred. The three of them prayed together, their voices low but steady.
Afterward, Amina whispered to her son, "Allah will open a door for us today. I feel it."
Zain nodded, though doubt gnawed at him. He thought of the stranger's warning. He thought of his father's hollow eyes. He thought of his mother's trembling hands.
And somewhere, beyond their sight, in a different part of the city, House No. 13 waited.
Silent. Empty. Watching.