BLOOMING OF THE WITHERED ROSE

EMBERS OF HOPE

The snow fell relentlessly, blanketing the northern town of Gilgit in a hushed white. Perched on the edge of the village, the mansion stood solitary and imposing, its grandeur a stark contrast to the modest dwellings nearby. Weather-beaten but still majestic, its timeworn walls bore the weight of generations' secrets and sorrows.

Zain, a tall, handsome young man with dark eyes that hinted at a once-bright future, rarely ventured beyond the mansion’s gates. His family name, a symbol of power and wealth, now carried a notorious reputation. Inside the mansion, the fire had long since dimmed, mirroring the desolation that clung to Zain's heart.

He was the youngest son of a powerful patriarch who had lavished all his attention on Zain's elder brother. Zain’s life had been a series of neglected moments and missed connections, a childhood marred by his father's constant disdain. His father never acknowledged him, never gave him a present, never spent time with him, and never allowed him friends. The few attempts Zain made to connect were met with insults and cold indifference. His relationship with his father was a bitter wound that had festered over the years.

The jealousy and resentment festered until one fateful day when Zain's brother falsely accused him of a grievous act. Enraged, Zain lashed out, his fury boiling over. The fight was brutal, and his brother ended up in the hospital. In retaliation, their father, in his merciless justice, severed Zain’s dominant hand. It was a punishment meant to cripple him in more ways than one. Afterward, Zain was confined to his room for months, his father's decree sealing his fate. When he was finally released, it was only to be sent away to their grandfather’s remote mansion in the north, a cold exile away from the family he had known. The isolation deepened his despair, and he sunk into a profound depression, losing all hope.

Then came the letter from his sister, a final blow to his fragile spirit. "You don't deserve to be in this family," she wrote. "We're better off without you." It confirmed what his father had already announced to the world: Zain had "died" in an accident. His existence was now a secret buried under the snow.

He spent his days in a haze, barely eating and reading books to escape his thoughts. Night after night, he battled sleeplessness, plagued by memories and regrets. The mansion, with its breathtaking views and beautiful scenery, was a gilded cage, trapping him in a past he couldn't escape.

One frigid winter night, as he studied a book by the dim light of his room, a figure appeared through the swirling snow. The blizzard obscured much, but he could just make out the shape of a woman in a black hood, her delicate frame battling the elements as she approached the mansion. She hummed a melody, her voice faint yet carrying through the wind.

Zain watched, intrigued and wary. Who was she? Why was she coming here in such a storm?

A soft knock echoed through the house. Zain hesitated, his heart pounding. It had been so long since anyone had come to this forsaken place. Finally, he approached the door, his steps heavy. “Who is it?” he called out.

“Zain,” came the reply, her voice muffled by the wind. “Your father sent me.”

He frowned. His father? After all this time? He unbolted the door, the cold air rushing in as he opened it. There she stood—a young woman, her face pale and eyes determined despite the freezing temperatures.

“Who are you?” he demanded, his tone harsh.

“I am Ayesha,” she said, shivering. “Your father sent me to care for you.”