Azlaan's POV
The sound of voices carried softly down the corridor as I stepped into the living room — laughter interwoven with the clinking of teacups, the kind of warmth that only long friendships could weave. The air felt alive, threaded with nostalgia, and something about it made my pace slow at the threshold.
For a moment, I simply stood there — watching.
The familiar scene unfolded like an old photograph come to life. The golden light from the chandelier fell across the patterned rug, glinting off porcelain cups and silver teaspoons. Dadi's laughter rose above the hum of conversation, her face alight with a joy I hadn't seen in weeks. Dadu sat comfortably beside idris Uncle, his eyes clearer, posture straighter — livelier than he'd been in days. The sight alone was enough to ease something inside me.
And then, I saw him.
Amin dadu— my grandfather's old friend, my own childhood hero. Time had etched its fine lines across his face, yet his eyes still carried that mischievous glint I remembered from old stories. His voice filled the room, steady, rich with life.
"Azlaan, my boy!" he exclaimed, rising halfway from his seat, hand outstretched. "You've grown into quite the tall, handsome man. I barely recognized you!"
I smiled as I stepped forward, bending slightly to take his hand in mine. His grip was firm, his laughter familiar. "It's good to finally meet you again, sir. Dadu's told me countless stories about you."
"Ah, stories, is it?" He chuckled, clapping my shoulder. "I hope he has told you the flattering ones."
The room laughed, and the warmth of it settled over me like a blanket. One by one, I greeted the others — faces I'd known all my life, each carrying their own shade of affection and familiarity.
But somewhere amid the laughter and gentle chaos, my attention drifted elsewhere — drawn, almost against my will.
Across the room, she sat beside Amin Uncle.
Aleena.
The name slipped through my mind like a whisper I'd known once, long ago. Her presence was quiet but arresting — the kind of stillness that draws notice without asking for it. The soft beige of her dress seemed to absorb the lamplight, her movements deliberate, graceful. She smiled when spoken to, but her gaze often fell to the teacup in her hand, as if she preferred to exist just outside the center of attention.
And yet, she stood out — effortlessly.
When her eyes lifted once, catching mine across the room, the world seemed to still for a moment. It wasn't a long look — just a fleeting glance — but something about it pulled at a memory I couldn't quite grasp.
The name lingered on my tongue, tasting oddly familiar.
Was it her?
The girl from that rainy night days ago
And now, sitting across the room, I couldn't be sure if it was truly her — or if memory was playing tricks again.
Dinner was soon announced, breaking the moment. Voices rose as chairs scraped softly against marble floors, laughter trailing behind like a familiar tune. I followed Dadu toward the dining hall, the scent of freshly baked naan and saffron rice wafting through the air.
The dining table shimmered beneath the chandelier's golden light, every dish arranged with care — gleaming bowls of curry, platters of kebabs still sizzling faintly. I took my seat beside Dadu, listening absently as he chatted animatedly with Amin Uncle.
My eyes, however, found her again.
Aleena walked beside her grandfather, her hand steadying his arm — gentle, protective, the gesture effortless. There was something profoundly tender in that small act — the way she looked at him with quiet reverence, as though every movement carried a silent promise of care.
When she finally sat down, her posture remained poised, but there was warmth beneath the calm. She listened more than she spoke — a careful observer in a room full of laughter.
mom's voice broke through the soft rhythm of chatter.
"We've made what you like, Aleena," she said, smiling. "Your rayyan dadu made sure the cook got the menu right. Said you're still the same picky eater."
The comment drew good-natured laughter. I noticed the faint color rising to Aleena's cheeks as she ducked her head, embarrassingly.
"She was always fussing over vegetables," Amin Uncle teased fondly. "Now she barely eats enough for a sparrow." he's voice softening at the end as he taught something.
That earned another round of laughter, She smiled, eyes downcast, but there was something in her expression — a shadow that passed quickly, like a cloud over sunlight.
But when Dadu urged her gently, "Eat properly, beta. You've grown thinner," she looked at him with such sincere softness that the air seemed to shift.
There it was again — that quiet grace. A gentleness that asked for nothing, yet made you want to look twice.
The conversation continued easily after that — stories exchanged, teasing remarks tossed across the table, the clink of spoons and glasses blending into a warm, domestic melody. And still, my gaze would wander, unbidden, to her — the way she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the way she listened, her fingers lightly tracing the rim of her glass when her mind seemed far away.
she lifted her eyes maybe sensing someone's eyes but before her eyes could meet mine my dadi called me asking about something.
Later, in the living room, dessert and tea followed. Zoya — as always — stole the show, toddling from lap to lap, her laughter like little bells. She brought the room to life without even trying.
Then, suddenly, she made her way toward Aleena.
I watched as Zoya tugged insistently at her dress. Aleena leaned down, her voice soft, musical — the kind of tone that made even a simple word sound kind.
"Hey there," she said, smiling. "What's your name?"
"Zoya!" the little one declared proudly.
Aleena smiled— a clear, unguarded one that drew everyone's attention. When Zoya tried to mimic her name and fumbled adorably — "Elle!" — the entire room erupted with laughter.
My mother gasped between chuckles. "That's exactly what you used to call her, Azlaan!"
I blinked. The name — that small, half-forgotten syllable — struck something deep inside me. "Elle."
I hadn't heard it in years.
A memory stirred — soft, hazy edges of childhood — laughter echoing in the garden, a little girl chasing butterflies, her pigtails bouncing as she called after me in the same way.
Zoya's tiny hands suddenly reached toward me. "Azi!" she called.
I walked over kneeling beside her. Zoya turned Aleena's face toward me with both her hands, grinning wide. "She iz Elle," she declared with grave seriousness, then added proudly, "Pletty."
Laughter rippled through the room again, but mine didn't quite reach my chest. Because when I looked at Aleena, her face was faintly flushed, her eyes lowered — avoiding mine. Her fingers moved absently through Zoya's hair, her smile gentle but distant.
And for a moment, I saw it — the quiet vulnerability behind her composure. The kind that doesn't ask to be seen, yet somehow lingers in plain sight.
The evening flowed on. Hana and Zayn teased each other as Dadi recounted old stories, Zoya showed off her toy collection, and the house filled with a warm, living hum. By the time the little one finally dozed off — curled against aleena, her tiny hand clutching the soft fabric of her dress — the night had softened into something tender and timeless.
Aleena's posture had changed entirely. She sat still, head slightly bowed, her expression serene. The edges of her hair brushed Zoya's forehead as she held her close. Something about that image — quiet, unguarded — stayed with me.
When it was finally time for them to leave, the house shifted again — chairs moved, goodbyes began, and the scent of tea and rain mixed faintly in the air.
Aleena stood beside Amin Uncle near the doorway, composed as ever, her smile polite. Yet her eyes carried a faint wistfulness — the kind that comes when one leaves behind warmth they didn't expect to find.
Dadi caught her hand gently. "You must visit often, beta," she said, her voice full of affection. "Be like you used to be — the bubbly one."
For the first time that night, I saw a flicker — emotion deep and quiet — cross Aleena's face. She smiled, nodding softly, but her eyes told another story.
We walked them to the gate — the night air cool, touched with the scent of rain. Streetlights cast long, golden shadows over the driveway. Aleena helped her grandfather into the car, careful and patient, her movements practiced yet tender.
She must have been the one driving — I could tell by the way she adjusted the seat, the rearview mirror, the calm precision of someone who preferred control over chance.
When the car door closed, she looked up once — not at anyone in particular, just at the gathering of us under the porch lights — and waved, a small, graceful gesture.
Then, the engine hummed softly, and the car began to roll down the street.
I stood there, hands in my pockets, watching until the red taillights disappeared into the curtain of drizzle that had begun again — faint, silvery threads against the night.
The others turned back toward the house, voices fading behind me. But I stayed where I was, staring at the road long after the car vanished.
Because deep down, somewhere beneath the logic of coincidence, something inside me whispered with quiet certainty —
that the girl I'd once seen through the rain,
the one whose eyes had lingered in my memory,
was now driving away into the night.
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