Years passed. Peace was no longer a dream — it was reality. Zahrah and Aydin had seen wars end, empires shift, and wounds healed. But now, they longed for stillness, not silence — a space of their own.
They moved to a quiet countryside in Switzerland, where the mountains touched the sky, and the wind carried the scent of pine and wildflowers. Their new home was nestled between rolling hills and a glassy lake, a place where time felt gentle.
One morning, as Zahrah walked barefoot through the dew-covered grass, she felt something different — not pain, not fear… but a strange wave of warmth and weight inside her. She paused, her hand slowly coming to rest on her belly.
That evening, she took a test. When the result appeared, she sat in silence for a long time.
Then she called Aydin.
He listened to her voice — soft, breathless, trembling with emotion — and without another word, he called Dr. Mary. By some quiet miracle, she too was in Switzerland for a medical summit. When Aydin explained, Mary said, "Bring her in. Now."
They rushed to her hospital, hearts pounding.
Dr. Mary smiled as she placed the cold gel on Zahrah's stomach and moved the scanner over her skin. A soft thudding echoed through the room.
And then another.
Mary's eyes widened, her voice breaking with joy.
"You're not just pregnant, Zahrah… You're having twins."
Zahrah stared at the screen — two tiny heartbeats flickering like starlight. Aydin took her hand, overcome with wonder.
In that moment, no throne, no crown, no army, no legacy mattered more than the two lives forming quietly within her.
Nine months later, on a gentle spring morning as the mist rolled over the Swiss hills, Zahrah gave birth to healthy twins — a girl and a boy.
The moment was tender and sacred.
No flashing cameras. No titles. Just love, tears, and the soft rustle of wind through blooming trees.
They named their daughter Dua Aurooj — "Dua," a prayer whispered into the heavens, and "Aurooj," the rise of hope from the ashes.
They named their son Danyel Azan — "Danyel," the strength of quiet judgment, and "Azan," a calling, a divine announcement to the world.
Their names were not chosen to impress.
They were chosen to mean something.
To be something.
Zahrah and Aydin didn't raise them to follow legacies — they raised them to follow truth, kindness, and the rhythm of their own hearts.
The days passed softly. Zahrah danced again — barefoot through sunlit halls, her laughter blending with the scent of lavender and old wood. Aydin would sit in the grass holding their children, listening to Zahrah's hums while sketching the mountains behind her.
It was peace.
Earned.
Held gently.