The next day began with the smell of fresh parathas drifting through the house.
It wasn’t Zulfishan cooking — she was still in bed, wrapped in a blanket, scrolling half-awake through her messages — but Mawra, humming softly in the kitchen.
Aabi was already there, leaning on the counter, trying to “help” but really just stealing pieces of fried potato from the plate.
When Zulfishan finally walked in, hair tied in a loose bun, Aabi’s eyes lit up. “Morning, sleepyhead. We were debating whether to wake you or just eat everything ourselves.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” she said, narrowing her eyes playfully.
“Try me,” he replied, sliding a plate toward her.
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After breakfast, Mrs. Hussain dropped by. She was holding a neatly folded notebook, the kind of thing only she would bring.
“Beta,” sh
