Author's POV
The first light of morning fell gently across the Khan residence, slipping through sheer curtains and scattering across polished marble floors. Outside, the city was just beginning to stir — the faint hum of engines, the distant call of a vendor, the rustle of wind in the neem trees that lined the street. Inside, however, everything was calm — that soft, orderly kind of calm that seemed to belong only to this house.
Azlaan stood by the wide window of his room, hands resting on the sill, watching as the sunlight touched the tops of the trees. His room reflected him perfectly: quiet, immaculate, measured. A tidy desk with neatly stacked files stood against one wall; a row of crisp shirts hung in color order inside the wardrobe; the faint scent of coffee lingered from the cup he had finished an hour ago. Nothing in the space was out of place — except, perhaps, the thoughts in his mind.
He had barely slept. The events of the previous day had played over in fragments — moments of conversation, the tone of his grandfather's voice, the weight of a single name that now seemed to echo in every corner of his thoughts.
Aleena.
He wasn't quite sure what to make of it. The idea still felt unreal — not unwelcome, just unexpected. His Dadu's call to Amin dadu had begun like any other, full of good-natured teasing and laughter. But by the end of it, something had shifted. Azlaan had sensed it the instant his grandfather put down the phone — that quiet satisfaction in his eyes, the calm certainty that followed. Later, when Dadu told him the truth — that he had spoken about Aleena — the words had landed like a soft, deliberate note that refused to fade.
It was strange. He had not seen her in years — or rather, he hadn't realized he had seen her until recently.
A month ago, on a rare free evening, he had been walking back to his car after a client meeting when it started to rain — not a gentle drizzle, but one of those sudden downpours that blurred the world into streaks of silver and sound. The street had emptied in seconds; people had scattered toward awnings and shops, umbrellas snapping open like startled wings.
He remembered pulling up his coat collar, striding across the wet pavement, when someone came running from the opposite direction — head down, arms full of files and a shawl clutched against the wind. She collided with him lightly, the sound of paper rustling, the faint scent of rain and something floral catching in the air between them.
"sorry," she said quickly, her voice soft, breathless, the kind that carried even over the sound of rain. She hadn't looked up right away — just gathered her things with quiet composure, murmured another apology, and continued on her way, her dupatta catching in the wind for a fleeting second before she disappeared down the street.
Azlaan had stood there for a moment longer than necessary, watching her go. Something about that brief encounter — the tone of her voice, the grace in her hurried movements — had stayed with him. He had told himself it was nothing; he didn't even know who she was. But that night, as he'd sat by his window, the image had returned again — her silhouette against the storm, the quiet dignity in the way she carried herself even in chaos.
And now, hearing her name from his grandfather's lips, everything fell into place with startling clarity.
It was her.
The girl in the rain.
Dadu had smiled when he'd mentioned it, as if amused by his grandson's faint disbelief. "You two used to play together when you were very small," he had said, chuckling softly. "You wouldn't remember, of course. You were both were small— inseparable every time our families met. She used to call you Azi and follow you everywhere, insisting you share your marbles and your juice boxes."
The memory didn't exist in his mind — not clearly, at least — but the thought of it lingered, faint and distant, like an old photograph lost somewhere in time. It unsettled him slightly, this realization that someone who had once shared his childhood laughter had grown into the woman whose name now stirred something unfamiliar in him.
He drew a slow breath and turned from the window. Sunlight had crept further into the room, spilling gold across the floorboards. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to clear his thoughts, but the effort only brought her name back again. There was a certain stillness in it — a calm that unnerved and intrigued him at once.
His phone buzzed on the desk, breaking the silence. The screen flashed: Arham – His Secretary.
He answered on the second ring.
"Good morning, sir," came Arham's crisp, professional tone. "Just confirming your nine-o'clock meeting with the board. The client presentation has been updated — I've emailed you the new financials."
"Got it," Azlaan said, voice even. "I'll review them before leaving."
"There's also a note from the accounts team about—"
"I'll handle it once I'm in," he interrupted. "Thank you, Arham."
"Of course, sir. One last thing — Mr. Rayyan mentioned a family dinner this week. Should I block that evening?"
His fingers paused on the desk. "Yes," he said after a moment. "Keep it free."
"Understood."
The line clicked off. The quiet returned — heavier now, threaded with the thought of that dinner.
Two days. That was when they would visit Amin dadu's home. Two days, and perhaps Aleena would have her answer.
He didn't know what he hoped for. He only knew that something about the uncertainty unsettled him in a way work never could.
When he finally stepped out of his room, the corridor was awash in morning light. The muted sounds of life trickled through the house — a maid setting the table, the faint hiss of the coffee machine, the murmur of distant conversation. The air smelled faintly of toast and cardamom.
Azlaan walked toward the dining area, buttoning the cuffs of his pale blue shirt as he went. His reflection caught briefly in the hallway mirror: composed, precise, every detail in place. Only his eyes betrayed the weight of the night's thoughts.
As he neared the breakfast nook, laughter reached him — low and teasing, unmistakably his brothers'.
Adeel, the youngest, was perched on a stool by the counter, spooning jam onto toast with dramatic care. His wife, Inaya, sat beside him, her hair tied in a neat braid, amusement already bright in her eyes. Ikram, the middle brother, leaned back in his chair, newspaper open, a grin playing at his lips as if he'd been waiting for this exact moment.
When they noticed Azlaan, all three fell silent for half a second — only to exchange conspiring glances a heartbeat later.
"Well, well," Adeel drawled, eyes twinkling. "Look who's up."
Azlaan raised an eyebrow as he pulled out a chair. "Good morning to you too."
Ikram folded the paper, smirking. "Morning, bhai. Big day?"
"Every day is a big day," Azlaan replied dryly, reaching for the coffee pot.
Inaya leaned forward, unable to contain her curiosity. "So bhai... are you going to tell us, or do we have to guess?"
"Tell you what?"
"Oh, don't act innocent," Adeel said, grinning. "We know."
Azlaan looked at him over the rim of his cup. "Do you?"
"About Aleena," Ikram supplied helpfully, tone laden with mischief.
The name caught in the air, soft but deliberate.
Azlaan's expression barely flickered. "Aleena," he repeated evenly.
"Yes, that Aleena." Inaya's smile grew. "You really thought we wouldn't find out? Dadu and Amin Dadi have been the talk of every family chat since last night."
Azlaan exhaled quietly, setting his cup down. "Impressive how fast news travels in this house."
Adeel laughed. "Come on, bhai, you can tell us. Did you agree already? Or"—he leaned forward conspiratorially—"are you in love with her?"
Ikram snorted into his coffee. "Adeel, this is bhai we're talking about. The man plans his emotions three months in advance."
Inaya swatted her husband's arm, laughing. "Let him speak!"
Azlaan gave them a long, unimpressed look — the one that had silenced board members twice their age. "You three have far too much free time."
"That's not a no," Adeel pointed out gleefully.
Before Azlaan could reply, another voice joined in — calm, authoritative, threaded with quiet amusement.
"Are you all interrogating your brother at breakfast?"
The teasing stopped instantly.
Rayyan Khan stood by the entrance, newspaper in one hand, glasses perched halfway down his nose. Despite his age, there was a sharpness to his presence — dignity without effort, warmth without weakness.
"Dadu," Inaya said sweetly, "we were just... catching up."
Rayyan smiled faintly, his eyes crinkling. "By catching up, you mean gossiping."
"Healthy family curiosity," Adeel corrected with mock innocence.
"Ah, of course." Rayyan's gaze shifted to his eldest grandson, who had gone back to calmly stirring his coffee. "So, Azlaan, they've already heard?"
"Seems like it," Azlaan replied. "Though the accuracy of their information is questionable."
Rayyan chuckled. "Not this time." He set the paper down and gestured for everyone to sit properly. The teasing faded; the air settled into attentive quiet. When Rayyan Khan spoke, even the youngest in the house listened.
"Amin bhai called me late last night," he began, his tone thoughtful. "He told me he spoke to Aleena."
Azlaan looked up. The soft clink of spoons and cups stilled.
Rayyan continued, "He told her about the proposal — about what we discussed. She was quiet at first. Taken by surprise, perhaps. He said she didn't give him an answer."
A small crease appeared between Azlaan's brows thinking she refused.
"No," Rayyan said gently seeing azlaan's facial expression. "She didn't say no. She just asked for time. Amin wants this to be her choice — not something decided for her." He paused, letting the weight of those words sink in. "He said she was thoughtful, uncertain... but listening."
The room fell silent, the kind of silence that hums with meaning.
Inaya exchanged a glance with Adeel, her expression softening. Ikram lowered his eyes to his cup, suddenly subdued.
Finally, Azlaan spoke, his tone even. "So we'll see them at dinner?"
Rayyan nodded. "Yes. The day after tomorrow. Amin said she might give an answer then, or perhaps before. Either way, we'll go — with respect, and patience."
Adeel, ever incapable of silence for long, muttered, "So it's basically a yes-maybe situation."
Rayyan gave him a mild look. "It's a let-her-breathe situation."
Ikram smiled faintly at that. "And what about you, Dadu? You seem... confident."
"I've lived long enough to recognize when something feels right," Rayyan said simply. His gaze lingered on Azlaan, warm with quiet pride. "And I believe this does."
The others seemed content with that answer, but Azlaan's thoughts had already drifted elsewhere. He stared down at the dark surface of his coffee, watching the faint ripple fade. Something about the conversation — Aleena's uncertainty, her silence — stayed with him longer than he expected.
He could imagine her now, thoughtful, trying to understand the weight of a decision that had appeared suddenly in her life. He wondered if she was scared. If she doubted herself. If she remembered him at all — the boy she had once played with, or the stranger she had bumped into beneath the rain.
The realization unsettled him, though he didn't show it.
Rayyan watched him for a moment, then smiled — that knowing, patient smile that saw far more than it revealed. "You're thinking too much," he said softly.
Azlaan looked up, meeting his eyes. "I'm thinking just enough."
Rayyan chuckled quietly. "That's what you always say when you're unsure."
"I'm not unsure," Azlaan replied, though his tone carried the faintest edge of hesitation. "Just... curious."
"Curiosity is the first step toward something meaningful," his grandfather said. "Don't run from it."
Azlaan inclined his head in acknowledgment, saying nothing more.
The moment stretched — calm, thoughtful — before Adeel broke it again, unable to resist. "Well, I don't know about meaningful, but I'd love to see Azlaan actually nervous for once."
"I'm not nervous," Azlaan said dryly.
Inaya laughed. "That's exactly what someone nervous would say."
Rayyan waved them off, smiling. "Enough, all of you. Let the man finish his breakfast in peace."
They relented, though the air remained light with amusement. Azlaan returned to his seat, cutting neatly into his omelette, his composure intact. But somewhere beneath that composed exterior, thoughts moved quietly — thoughts he wouldn't voice even if pressed.
The conversation drifted to other things — work, weekend plans, family updates — but the undercurrent remained. Every so often, Azlaan's gaze would flick toward the window, where the morning sun had risen fully now, bright and sure.
When breakfast ended and the family dispersed, Rayyan placed a hand briefly on his grandson's shoulder as he passed. "Whatever happens, Azlaan," he said softly, "trust life a little. Not everything worth having comes by logic."
Azlaan looked at him, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. "I'll try, Dadu."
Rayyan nodded once and walked away.
Left alone, Azlaan lingered a moment longer in the quiet dining hall. The empty cups, the soft light, the echoes of laughter — everything felt unusually still. He exhaled slowly, straightened his cuffs, and turned toward the hallway.
Two days.
That was all the time between now and her answer.
As he walked toward the front door, the morning sun followed — steady, unhurried, spilling light across the marble floor.
And though Azlaan Khan carried himself with the same quiet composure as always, something in his eyes betrayed it — the faint flicker of curiosity, of anticipation, of something that might, if he allowed it, one day grow into hope.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Hope you enjoyed. Tell me how it was
Also follow me on Instagram for BTS
@authorlia._8
Write a comment ...