MRS. KHAN

*MRS KHAN - CHAPTAR 3: THE MANUSCRIPT

*MRS. KHAN - Chapter 3: The Manuscript*

Nazimabad was noisy. Traffic. Horns. People.

It was better than silence.

Zain had been in his new room for 3 months. He didn’t go out after 9 PM. He didn’t look at rooftops. He wrote.

Every night. From 10 PM to 2 AM.

The story of Mrs. Khan. The truth. The lie. The roof. Kamran.

He named the manuscript “MRS. KHAN”.

On the 91st night, he finished the last line: “He smiled for the first time in weeks and walked away.”

He closed his laptop. His hands were shaking.

He didn’t know why he wrote it. Kamran said, “Write it.” So he did.

The next day he printed it. 212 pages. He put it in a brown envelope. No name. No address. He walked to the Liaquatabad post office.

He didn’t send it to a publisher. He sent it to the old house. Gali Number 7.

To: Mrs. Khan.

He didn’t know if she was still there. He didn’t know if Kamran was real or if his mind had broken that night.

He dropped the envelope in the box and ran.

He didn’t go back to that area for 6 months.

Life moved on. He got a job. A small publishing house in Saddar. Intern. Rs. 25,000 a month. He edited other people’s books. He forgot about his own.

Until one day in December.

His boss, Mr. Farhan, threw a brown envelope on his desk.

“This came for you. No return address. Just ‘For the writer of MRS. KHAN’.”

Zain’s blood went cold.

He opened it with trembling fingers.

Inside was his manuscript. Every page. But something was different.

On the last page, under his last line, someone had written in red ink:

“Chapter 3 is not the end.”

The handwriting was thin. Old. Female.

Under that, a key. A small, rusted iron key. Tied with a white thread.

And a note. Only 4 words.

“Come. 12 AM.”

Zain dropped the key. It made a sound on the wood.

“Problem?” Mr. Farhan asked.

Zain forced a smile. “No sir. Just… an old letter.”

He put everything back in the envelope and shoved it in his bag.

That night he didn’t sleep. He stared at the key.

It was the key to the old house. He remembered the lock. Heavy. Iron.

At 11:30 PM he was outside Gali Number 7.

The street was empty. The old house looked the same. Peeling paint. Closed curtains. But the lock on the gate was new. Shiny.

He took out the key. It fit. Click.

The gate opened.

The courtyard was clean now. The dry well was covered with wood. There were fresh flowers in a pot. The smell of incense was gone. It smelled like jasmine.

The door to the house was open.

“Aunty?” his voice cracked.

No answer.

He stepped inside. On the floor in the middle of the courtyard was a single candle. Next to it, the album. Open.

He walked to it.

Page one: Ayesha & Kamran. 2016.

Page two: The accident photo. But now, someone had drawn over it. In red. A circle. And a line going to page four.

Page four was not blank anymore.

It was a photo. New.

Zain. Sleeping on his desk in Saddar. Taken yesterday. From outside the window.

His heart dropped to his stomach.

From upstairs, a voice.

“You came.”

It was her. Mrs. Khan.

She walked down the stairs. She looked different. Hair tied back. No white shalwar kameez. She wore a simple grey one. Her eyes were normal again. Brown. Tired. Human.

Behind her was Kamran. He nodded at Zain.

“You sent the book back,” Zain said.

Mrs. Khan picked up the album. “I read it. All of it. You didn’t lie. You didn’t make me a villain.”

She closed it. “For 8 years I lived with ghosts. After Kamran came back, the ghosts left. But one stayed. Guilt.”

Kamran stepped forward. “We called you here because we need your help, Zain.”

“My help?” Zain laughed, nervous. “You scared me half to death.”

Mrs. Khan almost smiled. “Sorry for that. I wasn’t myself.”

She sat on the stairs. “That night, when you left, I found your father’s old files. In a wall behind the well. He kept everything. Land papers. Bribe receipts. The driver’s confession. Signed.”

She pulled out a folder. Yellow. Old.

“This can put 3 people in jail. Including a retired DSP. But if I go to the police alone, they will say I’m crazy. The widow who talks to ghosts.”

Kamran continued, “But if a writer publishes it. As research. As a book. With proof. No one can ignore it.”

Zain stared at them. “You want me to write a non-fiction book? Expose my dead father?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Khan said. No hesitation. “Because you are not your father. And I am not a monster anymore.”

Zain was silent for a long time. The candle flickered.

“What if I say no?” he asked finally.

“Then you walk out,” Kamran said. “And we burn the files. And we live. That’s it.”

Zain looked at Mrs. Khan. No fire in her eyes now. Just sadness. And hope.

He thought of 12 AM. Of cold ropes. Of the knife.

He also thought of a boy who didn’t know his father was a killer.

He picked up the folder.

“I’ll need time,” he said. “And a lawyer.”

Mrs. Khan exhaled. Like she had been holding her breath for 8 years.

“Take all the time you need,” she said. “The house is yours now. During the day. Write here. No ghosts. I promise.”

Zain blinked. “Mine?”

Kamran put a hand on his shoulder. “We’re moving to Gwadar. By the sea. Start over. This house… it has too much blood. Let it have ink instead.”

One month later, Zain moved his desk into the courtyard.

He wrote from 9 AM to 5 PM. The sun was warm. No footsteps at night.

The book was called “The Liaquatabad Files”.

It was published one year later. It became a bestseller. The DSP was arrested. The land was returned to 12 families.

On the last page of the book, under ‘Acknowledgements’, Zain wrote only one line:

“For Ayesha and Kamran Khan. For giving me a roof, and then letting me leave it.”

He never saw them again after they left for Gwadar.

But every year on June 12th, at 12 AM, a white envelope arrives at his flat.

Inside is one photo. Always new.

Last year it was him. Holding his award.

This year it was him. Smiling. With the sea behind him.

On the back, always the same 3 words in red ink:

“Chapter 3. Ended.”