It was early winter in Lahore.
The kind of cold that whispered through old kothis, wrapped itself around bangles, and lingered in cups of steaming chai. The sun had dipped behind the Wazir Khan mosque, casting its last light on the pink brick walls of the old city. Evening had arrived softly — like it was walking barefoot.
Alishba stood on the rooftop of her little flat near Mochi Gate, camera in one hand, a book in the other, and her dupatta pulled close against the wind.
Below, children released paper lanterns into the sky.
Each one glowing like a promise.
She lifted her camera and clicked — not out of duty, but habit. The city always looked its most honest right before nightfall.
It had been almost a year since Daniyal’s ashes scattered over the Ravi. A year since her truth went public, loud, unfiltered. Since Reyan walked away.
He hadn’t called.
Not once.
She told herself that was the closure. That maybe he’d needed to vanish to heal.
And she… she had finally learned to live with half-light.
She went downstairs just after maghrib, kettle on the stove, jhumkay on the side table, and an old ghazal playing from her grandfather’s radio.
Then—
A knock.
Not rushed. Not uncertain.
Three steady taps.
She opened the door.
And there he was.
Reyan.
Standing like he had every right to — like he’d never left.
Beard trimmed, eyes tired, jacket creased from travel. But his posture was different.
No duffel. No weapon. No secrets.
Just… him.
“Hi,” he said softly.
Alishba blinked.
“What are you doing here?”
“I was in Karachi,” he replied. “Then Islamabad. And then… nowhere.”
She folded her arms.
“And now?”
“Now I’m home.”
A long pause.
Then he added:
“I didn’t come for a mission. I didn’t come with a warning. I came because… I think I’ve run from you enough.”
Her breath caught in her throat.
“You left without a word.”
“I thought I was poison,” he said. “To you. To Daniyal’s memory.”
“You were… once,” she admitted.
“But now?”
She didn’t answer.
She turned, walked back inside — left the door open.
And after a moment… he followed.
They sat in silence for a while.
Then she poured two cups of chai.
Passed one to him.
“I still don’t trust you completely,” she said.
“You don’t have to.”
“I still remember everything you didn’t say.”
He nodded.
“You always did.”
Another pause.
Then she looked at him, really looked.
“You came back.”
He smiled.
“No one ever really leaves the ember, do they?”
She laughed — a real one this time.
And then leaned her head against the window, watching the lanterns rise outside.
Softly, without turning, she asked:
“Will you stay?”
He didn’t answer with words.
He just placed his hand beside hers — close, but not touching.
And in that space between skin and warmth, she knew:
He would.
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And somewhere in the sky, a single lantern glowed brighter than the rest — not for what it carried, but for who it returned to.
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