Scene 1 — Shifted to a Private Room
Morning slipped into the hospital like a cautious guest, soft light filtering through frosted glass. In Services Hospital, Lahore, the ICU doors parted and a trolley rolled out with careful hands guiding it—Nurse Shabnam walking alongside, a junior nurse steering, and Noman keeping pace, one palm on the rail to steady the bed as if his touch alone could keep his sister safe.
Sara's eyes were half-open, her breathing unassisted now, the bruising on her cheek faded from purple to a tired yellow. Doctor Ayesha had signed off on the move an hour earlier: vitals stable, sedation tapered, private room recommended for quiet and rest.
They turned down the corridor to a sunlit room—mint walls, a window that caught a square of sky, a single recliner, and a sofa that could pretend to be a bed. The junior nurse slid the trolley alongside the bed and, on a silent count, they transferred Sara to the mattress. Tubes were checked, the drip rehung, the monitor's soft beeps reconnected to their cadence.
Noman exhaled only once it was done. He smoothed the sheet near her shoulder, a gesture learned over years—fixing school collars, pinning dupattas, tugging shawls over shivering shoulders. He had always been her shield, even when he failed to reach in time.
Sara blinked, found him. The tiniest curve touched her lips.
"Bhai…" It was a thread of sound, barely there.
"I'm here," Noman said, instantly, gently. "Aur kahin nahi jaa raha. Bas tum araam karo."
Nurse Shabnam confirmed the chart, tucked the monitoring cable to one side, and looked from patient to brother with a professional's poise and a sister's empathy.
"She's doing better," Shabnam said. "Private room will help."
Noman nodded. He kept his voice hushed, as if loudness could bruise her. "Thank you. For everything."
Scene 2 — What She'll Wear
A while later, with Sara dozing, Shabnam returned to the doorway, a clipboard hugged to her chest.
"Noman sahib," she began softly, "ab jab patient private room mein hai, hospital gown se normal kapdon par shift karna hoga. Comfortable, airy kapde. Aaj shaam tak doctor Ayesha ne dressing change ke baad fresh clothes recommend kiye hain."
Noman straightened. "Uske ghar par tala laga hai. Yahan hamare paas uske kapde nahi." He paused, thinking through their life like an inventory. "Lekin uske sizes mujhe maloom hain—college ke liye jo white shalwar kameez leti thi, waist… length… sab yaad hai." A rueful smile flickered. "Har uniform main hi to press karta tha."
Shabnam's mouth warmed into a smile. "Elder brothers hote hi aise hain." She glanced at her watch, then back up. "Main kuch ghante ki chhutti le sakti hoon. Liberty Market paas hi hai. Aap chalenge? Aapko uski pasand maloom hai, main selection aur fitting mein madad kar dungi."
Noman didn't even hesitate. "Chalte hain. Bas patient ko aap log dekh lijiye."
"We'll keep her safe," Shabnam assured him. "You come back jaldi."
Noman bent close to the bed. "Sara, main bas kapde lene jaa raha hoon. Tumhari pasand ke rang. Jaldi aata hoon." He brushed a knuckle against the blanket near her wrist—the closest thing to a touch that wouldn't disturb her IV—and followed Shabnam out.
Scene 3 — Liberty Market Errand
Late morning crowds braided through Liberty Market: hawkers selling hairclips and dupatta pins, a chai vendor's kettle whispering steam, mannequins in summer lawn posing behind glass. Shabnam led with an efficient stride; Noman matched it with purpose.
They stopped at a boutique with good cottons and modest cuts. Inside, racks of pastel kameez swung lightly under fans.
"Usay hamesha halka rang pasand tha," Noman said, scanning. "White, off-white, halka pink. Dupatta zyada printed nahi, plain ya chhota sa border."
Shabnam pulled out three options, letting the fabric breathe across her forearms—an ivory lawn with slim sky-blue running stitch at the hem, a blush rose set with a narrow lace on the sleeves, and a pale sage with a whisper of chikankari on the front.
Noman measured with his eyes in the way caretakers do. "Yeh ivory wali bilkul uski college wali pasand jaisi hai. Length thoda zyada—she likes it hitting mid-calf, not higher." He held up the sage. "Iska dupatta halka hai—accha. She gets warm easily."
Shabnam nodded approval. "Three suits then—ivory, blush, sage."
Noman added, "Ek cotton ka night suit bhi de dijiye—loose. Aur ek ghar ke liye halka sa cardigan… raat ko thand lagti hai."
They moved to footwear: soft house slippers, a simple pair of beige sandals with good grip. At a small counter, Shabnam lowered her voice and handled the intimate essentials with the practiced tact of a nurse. Noman, gaze averted, supplied sizes without a stammer—numbers he knew from laundry tags and shopping lists, from years of being the sibling who noticed, who made sure nothing ever pinched or pulled.
"Finish with toiletries," Shabnam said. They picked up a gentle, unscented soap, a mild shampoo, lip balm, a packet of soft hair ties, and, on Noman's insistence, a small tin of the cold cream Sara always kept by her bedside in winter.
At the billing counter, the shopkeeper folded each set into tissue, sealed with gold stickers. Noman paid, gathered the neat stack of bags, then paused at a stationary stall to buy a small spiral notebook and a pen.
"For when she doesn't want to talk," he said. "Woh likh legi."
Shabnam glanced sideways at him, moved. "Aap sach mein bade bhai lagte hain."
"Bas koshish karta hoon," Noman replied, voice tight around all the ways he felt he had failed and was trying now to mend.
Scene 4 — Back at the Room
By early afternoon, they were back. The private room smelled faintly of antiseptic and sunlight. Shabnam set the bags on the sofa, pulled out the ivory set, and gestured.
"Noman sahib, aap thodi der bahar baithiye. Main aur nurse patient ko change kara dete hain."
Noman nodded and stepped out. He paced the corridor under the dull tick of a wall clock, sat, stood, checked his phone without reading anything, then stared at the notebook he'd bought. On the first page, he printed in my-best-handwriting care: "Sara—tum jo likhna chaho."
When Shabnam finally opened the door, she looked satisfied. "Aayiye."
Sara lay propped at a gentle angle, the ivory kameez soft against her skin, dupatta light and respectful across the shoulders. A hint of color had returned to her face; the absence of hospital blue made her look more herself and less a case file.
Noman's throat tightened. He stepped to the bedside and set the notebook where she could see it.
"Tumhari pasand," he said, and tried for lightness. "Ivory wali. Shikayat to nahi?"
Sara's mouth tilted. "Bilkul nahi," she whispered. Her fingers, not quite steady, found the notebook and patted it. "Bhai… perfect."
He swallowed. "Aur yeh slipper—soft wale." He slid them just under the bed, where she could reach them when needed.
Doctor Ayesha appeared during the scene, checked vitals, adjusted a rate on the drip, and gave a brisk nod. "Good progress. Speaking in short sentences only. And rest. Dono zaroori."
She looked at Noman. "Elder brother ji, good choices. Keep her calm. No visitors other than you and police escort."
Noman dipped his head. "Jaisa aap kahengi."
Scene 5 — Orders from Islamabad
A little after three, Haroon's phone vibrated. DSP Farooq's name was a weight on the screen.
"Sir," Haroon answered, stepping into the corridor.
Farooq's voice was clear, decisions already made. "Haroon, ab tum Islamabad wapas aa jao. Central desk pe paperwork, warrants, aur legal coordination tum hi sambhalo. SHO Jibran yahan Lahore mein rukega. He will remain with Sara and Noman until the doctors clear her for travel. Then he'll escort both back to Islamabad."
"Understood, sir," Haroon said. He didn't argue, though a part of him wanted to. "Jibran is solid."
"Exactly why I'm leaving him there," Farooq replied. "You report to me tonight, then go home. Rest. We'll need your head clear."
The call ended. Haroon reentered the room. Noman looked up.
"DSP ka order aaya," Haroon said quietly. "Main ab wapas Islamabad jaa raha hoon. SHO Jibran yahin rahega tum dono ke saath—hospital se discharge aur travel tak. Kisi cheez ki zarurat ho, usko bolo. Direct line pe hoon."
Noman stood and, without ceremony, gripped Haroon's hand with both of his. "Shukriya. Aap ne jo kiya… woh main bhool nahi sakta."
Haroon shook his head. "Abhi bahut kaam baqi hai." He turned to Sara, softened his tone. "Tum bas theek ho jao. Baaki hum sambhal lenge."
Sara gave the smallest nod, the kind made when strength must be rationed like medicine. "Thank you, Inspector."
Haroon set his cap under his arm and inclined his head to both siblings. "Allah hifazat kare." Then to Shabnam at the door: "Nurse sahiba—thank you for the extra mile."
"Yeh humara kaam hai," she replied, but the firmness in her eyes said she understood the rarity of teams that truly cared.
Scene 6 — The Week That Followed
The days stretched and softened. SHO Jibran kept a steady guard outside the room; two constables rotated with him, keeping the corridor orderly and the curious at bay. Sara slept, woke, spoke in careful teaspoons—no more, no less. She learned the room's small weather: how the light shifted across the wall by noon, how the window clicked when the air-conditioner cycled, how Shabnam's bracelets announced her before she entered.
Noman made himself useful in the ways that matter—combing Sara's hair with the wide-tooth comb they'd bought, coaxing her to sip warm broth, reading her the headlines and then setting the paper aside because headlines hurt. He wrote appointments on the first pages of the notebook: dressing change, physiotherapy, counseling intake. On the fourth day, Sara took the pen from him and, with slow effort, printed: "I'm still here." They both stared at the sentence until their eyes blurred.
Jibran filed twice-daily updates to Islamabad: "Vitals stable, appetite improving, statement to resume post-clearance, security tight." He liaised with Lahore Police on sealed warrants and kept the trail to Heera Mandi warm without spooking prey. Each night he stepped into the prayer space outside, placed his palms on his knees, and asked that his watch be enough.
Scene 7 — Haroon's Return
On the seventh evening, an Islamabad sunset bled orange into the Margalla silhouette. Haroon's SUV rolled through familiar streets, a fatigue perched on his shoulders that even strong tea couldn't budge. At headquarters he had handed Farooq a stack of typed briefs and scanned evidence lists; in return Farooq had given him the simplest luxury.
"Seedha ghar jao," the DSP had said, the command softened by concern. "Aaj paperwork khatam. Kal se naye warrants. Aaj ke liye—bas ghar."
Haroon parked outside his F-7 home. The gate clicked. The front door opened before he could reach for the bell.
Maryam stood there, dupatta gathered at her shoulder, the day's light still warm on her face. Relief rose in her eyes like dawn breaking.
"Haroon," she said, and the way she said his name made the week loosen its grip on his spine. "Tum aa gaye?"
"Aa gaya," he breathed, an exhausted smile pushing through. "Finally."
She stepped aside to let him in and took the bag from his hand. "Andar aao. Paani peeyo. Chai ban rahi hai."
He toed his shoes off, the familiar rug under his feet suddenly a benediction. From the hallway came a small, jubilant thud—little Irfan's feet, two-years-and-fearless, barreling around the corner, followed by Ubaid who'd shot up another half-inch while his father looked away.
"Baba!" Ubaid skidded to a stop and launched himself at Haroon's waist. Irfan stopped, looked, then grinned and lifted both arms in demand.
Haroon crouched, scooped Irfan up, and pulled Ubaid in with an arm, the three of them a heap of laughter and breath. For a long heartbeat he let himself be only what he was here—husband, father, not a badge.
Maryam watched, hand pressed lightly to her chest. "Ab theek lag rahe ho," she murmured, and when Haroon looked up, she caught the tiredness sitting still in his eyes.
"DSP ne kaha rest," Haroon said, standing. "Aur main is baar mana nahi karunga."
"Good," Maryam replied, already mothering him into the sofa. "Tum baitho. Main chai laati hoon. Aaj ke liye bas ghar. Baaki sab kal."
He sank into the cushions. The house smelled of cardamom and something cooking slow—maybe dal, maybe a stew. A ceiling fan hummed. Ubaid plopped beside him with a comic book; Irfan, satisfied with conquest, began dismantling a block tower on the rug. Haroon leaned his head back and let the simple noises fill him.
Maryam returned with a tray—two cups of tea, a small plate of biscuits, and the quiet competence that had steadied him since the first case that ate his sleep.
"Shukriya," he said, taking the cup. He met her eyes. "Wahan… mushkil tha."
Maryam sat, folding one leg under her. "Mujhe pata hai," she said. "Bataoge. Jab tayyar ho."
"Bataunga," he promised. "Sara… she's stronger than any of us thought. Jibran uske saath hai. Jaldi hi, insha'Allah, Islamabad."
Maryam nodded. "Us din, jab woh yahan aayegi, main uske liye sheer khurma banaungi. Aur tumhare liye—do din ki poori neend."
He laughed, a sound cracking the week's shell. "Deal."
They sipped their tea while the boys invented rules for a game only they understood. Outside, the city folded itself into evening. Inside, the house held its small, important peace—the kind men take back to the field.
Tomorrow would bring warrants, raids, names to pull from shadows. Tonight belonged to a living room, to a woman who met him at the door, to children who anchored him to something worth protecting.
And in a private room in Lahore, an elder brother sat by a sister's bedside, turning a page in a small notebook and writing the date at the top, because some days are worth marking when a life leans back toward the light.
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End of Chapter 62