Amina Begum (Ahmed's mother) never asked to be part of the bridge. She never sought legends, rifts, or grand destinies. She simply loved her son—and when he returned glowing and changed, carrying two worlds in his eyes, she loved him harder. Over the years, she watched the orchard become a portal hub, her grandchildren grow wings and scales, her husband cross once and never return. She remained the still point: cooking sheer khurma in the same deg for thirty years, pressing ajrak shawls for new wives, humming Pathanay Khan when the spire felt too loud.
But love is not passive. In her late 70s, Amina Begum began her own quiet adventures—not through rifts, but through the ones that opened in her own heart. These are her stories—small, domestic, luminous.
1. The First Crossing – The Day She Stepped Through (2046)
After Khan Sahib passed under the mango tree, Amina Begum spent months in silence. She cooked, prayed, smiled at the grandchildren, but her eyes were always on the portal arch—like she was waiting for permission.
One Eid morning, Ahmed found her standing before it, ajrak shawl wrapped tight, holding a steel tiffin of parathas and sheer khurma.
"Ammi… you want to go?"
She nodded once.
"I want to see where my husband went. Where my son built a second home. I want to smell the air he breathed when he missed us."
Ahmed offered his arm.
"Then come."
She stepped through—first time since Ahmed's return.
The Unity Spire courtyard opened before her: starbloom vines climbing obsidian, dragonkin hatchlings playing with beastkin pups, elves braiding jasmine into Saraiki children's hair. The scent hit her—mango wood fires, alien spices, clean magic.
Thalira the dragonkin matriarch approached—slow, respectful.
"You are the mother," Thalira rumbled. "The one who taught him hospitality."
Amina looked up—unafraid.
"And you are the one who gave him wings. Thank you."
They embraced—human arms around scaled shoulders.
Amina spent the day wandering: tasting starberry-mango fusion halwa, listening to elven lullabies that sounded like Pathanay Khan in a different tongue, watching dwarf grandchildren hammer tiny horseshoes with Saraiki children. She sat with the wives—Vixen, Kira, Sylara, Lirael, and all the others—sharing recipes, laughing at stories of Ahmed's early clumsiness.
At sunset, she stood under a starbloom tree and whispered to the sky:
"Ji… you were right. It is beautiful."
She returned before dark—tiffin empty, heart full.
From then on, she crossed weekly—always bringing food, always returning before Maghrib prayer.
2. The Chai Council – Amina's Diplomacy (2047–2050)
Amina noticed early that the wives sometimes carried quiet tensions—different cultures, different ways of loving the same man. She never forced peace. Instead, she began the "Chai Council."
Every Friday after Jumu'ah, she set up a charpoy under the old mango tree—on the Kot Addu side so it felt like home. She brewed chai the old way: loose leaf, cardamom pods cracked by hand, milk boiled three times, sugar to taste.
All wives were invited—no rank, no hierarchy.
Vixen came first—tail swishing nervously. Amina handed her a cup.
"Tell me about your mother's cooking, beti."
Vixen spoke of fox-hollow stews; Amina listened, then shared her own mother's korma recipe.
Kira came next—still wary. Amina asked about pack songs. Kira sang a low lullaby; Amina hummed along, blending it with a Saraiki tune.
One by one, they came: Sylara spoke of mountain hearths, Lirael of grove silences, Borina of forge fires, Ogrima of war feasts, Gobrina of warren feasts, Beastra of pride hunts, Ursa of forest dens, Centara of steppe gallops, Satyra of grove revels, Lamira of swamp rivers, Harpya of cliff winds, Cylopa of forge heat, Capra of mountain paths, Vampira of night silences, Nagara of river temples, Sassi of desert endurance, Heer of field passion, Pari of fairy wishes, Churel of shadow redemption, Sohni of river love.
Amina never judged. She only listened—and shared her own stories: raising Ahmed alone after her mother-in-law's harsh words, waiting for him during his college years, praying every night he'd come home safe.
Over months, the Chai Council became sacred. Differences softened. Laughter grew. Recipes were exchanged: dragonkin fire-chai, orc blood-spice tea, fairy wish-syrup, vampire moon-milk.
One day, Vixen said:
"You never asked us to change. You just… loved us."
Amina smiled.
"Love doesn't ask for change. It makes change feel like home."
3. The Night She Sang for the Spire (2050)
By 2050, Amina was 80—frail in body, unbreakable in spirit. The grandchildren now numbered in the dozens; great-grandchildren were arriving. She spent most days in the orchard, sitting under the old tree, telling stories to anyone who listened.
One night, a rare rift storm swept through—small tears opening randomly, leaking shadow whispers. The children were scared; even the adults felt the old fear.
Amina walked to the spire courtyard—alone.
She sat on the grass, opened her mouth, and sang.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
Just Pathanay Khan's "Merra ishq vi tu…"—soft, cracked with age, but steady as the Indus.
The song carried—through the spire, through the bridge, through both worlds.
The rifts trembled—then stilled. Shadows retreated. The storm passed.
Ahmed found her afterward—sitting under starbloom, smiling.
"Ammi… you sang the storm away."
She shrugged.
"Love is louder than any shadow."
4. Her Final Crossing (2055)
Amina Begum passed quietly in 2055, at 85, under the same mango tree where Khan Sahib had gone. She had spent the morning making sheer khurma for the grandchildren, humming Pathanay Khan. By afternoon, she lay on the charpoy, ajrak shawl over her, family around her.
She looked at Ahmed—eyes clear.
"Beta… I saw everything I needed to see. Two worlds. One family. One love."
She looked at the grandchildren.
"Keep the bridge open. Keep the chai warm. Keep laughing."
She closed her eyes.
The orchard held its breath.
A soft wind rose—carrying Pathanay Khan's voice from the crystal nearby:
"Merra ishq vi tu, mera imaan vi tu…"
The wind carried the song upward—through the bridge, through both skies.
Amina smiled one last time.
And crossed.
No portal needed.
She went home—wherever home was now.
The family kept vigil under the tree—wives holding hands, children weeping softly, grandchildren clinging.
Ahmed placed a mango blossom on her chest.
The bridge pulsed once—soft, warm.
Amina Begum had crossed one last time—not to see the worlds, but to join the one who waited.
And the orchard bloomed brighter than ever.
The bridge grew stronger.
Love, after all, was the only eternal thing.