.It was 4:20 AM on a chilly February morning.
The city of Lahore still slept beneath a blanket of winter mist, but in the quiet, elegant bungalow next to the grand Malik Mansion, a warm light flickered on in an upper-floor bedroom.
Sumaha Malik had awakened.
Wrapped in a soft white blanket, she sat up slowly. Her lashes blinked away the last traces of sleep. A soft, sacred silence rested over the room — the kind of calm only known to early risers and people of faith. Without disturbing that peace, she reached for her scarf from the chair, then stepped out of bed barefoot.
She walked across the carpeted floor with grace, not haste.
She passed the mirror, but did not pause for more than a glance.
Fair skin without the need for cosmetics.
Almond-shaped eyes, calm and deep.
Lips that looked like they'd rather pray than speak.
And an aura — not of arrogance — but of quiet self-respect.
There was no effort in her beauty. No show.
She performed ablution, then placed her prayer mat by the window. As she stood in prayer, her silhouette bowed in surrender, the white dupatta resting gently on her shoulders, a soft recitation rising into the morning air.
She prayed not for the world to notice her — but for her heart to remain steady in it.
Once finished, she recited from the Quran. Her fingers moved gently over the pages, voice low and rhythmic, like something timeless. Then, with reverence, she folded the mat and kissed the corner of the book.
She moved toward the balcony and opened the doors.
The cold wind greeted her softly. Below, the garden shimmered with dew. Above, the sky turned from black to violet. Her fingers curled lightly over the railing. She whispered to herself:
> "Alhamdulillah."
Gratitude — spoken with breath, not broadcasted online.
She stood there quietly, unaware that a pair of eyes from the neighboring mansion searched the morning mist for that very figure every day.
---
Meanwhile, at the Mosque…
The nearby masjid stood like a beacon in the soft dawn.
Men walked out slowly, wrapped in shawls and quiet prayers. Among them, two walked with purpose — one young, tall, and striking; the other older, but regal.
Ahmed Malik and Haji Hamid Malik — grandson and grandfather.
Their ritual was the same every day: Fajr at the mosque, followed by a walk before the city fully awoke. No guards, no assistants, no chaos. Just two men — one carrying the legacy, the other preparing to inherit it.
Ahmed wore a navy tracksuit, white sneakers, and a black sports watch. His sharp features glinted under the faint light — jet-black hair slightly tousled, fair skin, and deep black eyes that rarely revealed what they felt.
He walked with controlled calm — the kind you don't learn, but inherit.
Once they reached the private park near their estate, the older man spoke.
> "Ahmed," said Haji Hamid, his voice steady, "I've seen you take over responsibilities like a true Malik. It's time you consider something else."
Ahmed slowed his pace.
> "What do you mean, Dada Jaan?"
The old man stopped walking and looked him in the eyes.
> "It's time for you to marry."
Ahmed exhaled quietly. His face didn't change, but his thoughts did.
> "I haven't thought about it seriously. There's still so much to do—"
> "There will always be more to do," Dada Jaan interrupted. "But some things don't wait forever."
Ahmed gave a respectful nod and smiled faintly. "You always know what to say, Dada Jaan."
They resumed walking.
But something had shifted in Ahmed's silence.
---
The Moment
As they reached the grand gates of the estate, Ahmed glanced toward the house next door — his uncle Armaan Malik's more modest home.
He didn't intend to stop.
But then — he saw her.
On the upper-floor balcony. Standing in an off-white scarf, hands gently folded on the rail, her profile framed by the soft lilac sky.
Sumaha.
Their eyes met — just for a second.
But time moved differently in that second.
Her gaze, normally lowered, lifted briefly. And for that one fleeting moment, the world narrowed down to two people and one glance.
She turned away first.
He didn't blink for a while.
---
Back Inside Malik Mansion
Ahmed returned to his room.
The staff had already placed his clothes for the day: a tailored black shirt, grey trousers, his classic Rolex. He dressed quickly, spritzed on his signature cologne — woodsy and understated — and paused at the mirror.
> "It's just a normal day," he told himself.
But it didn't feel normal anymore.
Downstairs, the family had gathered for breakfast. The table gleamed under sunlight. Fresh juice, croissants, halwa, parathas — all arranged with perfect symmetry.
Ahmed greeted everyone politely, bent to kiss his grandmother's forehead.
> "Jitna handsome hai, utna hi tameez wala," she said, smiling proudly.
He sat down, but didn't eat much.
His thoughts were still on a white balcony.
---
At Armaan Malik's Bungalow
In the warm kitchen, Sumaha helped her mother lay out breakfast. The house was smaller than the mansion, but filled with warmth. Her father, Armaan, sat quietly with his tablet, her mother worked in silence, occasionally humming a soft tune.
They sat together — simple food, soft conversation.
> "Baba, I have a quiz today," Sumaha said.
> "You'll do well, like always," he replied, patting her hand.
Her mother kissed her forehead. "Allah is with you, meri beti."
---
Later, Sumaha dressed in a navy-blue kameez with silver detailing, paired with a chiffon dupatta draped modestly. She wore a simple silver watch. Her perfume was soft — roses, musk, and calm.
No lipstick. No filters.
Still, wherever she went, she left an impression — not loud, but lasting.
Her driver waited in the black Civic. She waved goodbye to her mother, lunchbox in hand, and slid into the back seat.
---
At University
The campus buzzed.
Sumaha walked with her usual grace — gaze lowered, steps measured, dupatta perfectly in place. Her best friend, Jia, ran up to her.
> "You didn't reply to my message!" Jia whined.
> "Slept early. Quiz prep," Sumaha smiled.
They entered the Chemistry Hall together.
Sumaha sat on the second bench, eyes on the board. Focused. Calm. Distant — but present.
And from a few rows behind, someone watched her.
Not with desire. Not with arrogance.
With respect.
---
Across the Room
Aima Mujahid — dressed in designer wear, heels tapping like punctuation — watched Sumaha with narrowed eyes.
> "I don't get what's so special about her," she muttered to a friend. "Always so quiet, acting like she's holier than us."
She didn't know that Ahmed Malik, her own cousin, had just stopped mid-thought this morning… because of that very girl.
---