BLOOMING OF THE WITHERED ROSE

THE THAW

Days passed with a monotonous rhythm in the mansion nestled among the snow-capped peaks. Zain, a tall, handsome young man burdened by his past and isolated by his circumstances, remained half-cold towards Ayesha. His initial kindness in letting her in and offering his coat was overshadowed by the emotional walls he kept firmly in place. Ayesha, the mysterious woman sent by his father, noticed his distant demeanor but remained patient, determined to break through his barriers.

Zain would occasionally compliment her efforts around the house, but his words felt dry and mechanical. "The place looks nice," he would say, barely glancing up from his book. Ayesha appreciated the words but sensed the lack of genuine warmth behind them. At first, she felt disheartened, but she quickly realized that Zain was not used to this new dynamic. Change would take time, and she was willing to wait.

Ayesha busied herself trying to recreate things Zain once enjoyed, hoping to rekindle a sense of joy in his life. She found old records he used to love, played them in the background as she cleaned, and prepared meals he once favored. However, instead of bringing him closer, these gestures seemed to drive Zain further into his shell. The memories of happier times only served to remind him of the pain and betrayal that followed.

One particularly cold afternoon, Ayesha decided to cook his favorite dish-chicken korma. She had spent hours preparing it, following the recipe meticulously. The aroma filled the house, a warm, nostalgic scent that wafted through the hallways and into Zain's room.

Suddenly, Zain stormed into the kitchen, his face contorted with anger. "What are you doing?" he demanded, his voice harsh.

Ayesha turned, startled by his sudden appearance. "I thought you might like this," she said softly. "It used to be your favorite."

"Throw it away," he snapped. "Or give it to someone else. I don't want it here."

"But-" Ayesha began, her heart sinking at his harsh tone.

"Do it!" Zain shouted, his voice echoing through the empty mansion.

Ayesha's eyes widened in shock and hurt, but she did as he ordered. She gathered the dish she had lovingly prepared and disposed of it, her movements slow and deliberate. As she did, she could feel Zain's eyes on her, a mix of anger and regret.

The next day, Zain stood by the fireplace, staring into the flames, his mind a turbulent sea of guilt and remorse. He replayed the scene in the kitchen over and over, the look of hurt on Ayesha's face haunting him. He knew he had overreacted, that his outburst had been uncalled for.

Taking a deep breath, he approached Ayesha in the living room. She was sitting by the window, a book in her hands, but her eyes were distant, lost in thought. "Ayesha," he began, his voice softer than it had been in days.

She looked up, her eyes wary but attentive. "Yes?"

"I'm... I'm sorry," Zain said, struggling with the words. "About yesterday. I shouldn't have yelled at you."

Ayesha closed the book, her expression thoughtful. "Why did you react like that?" she asked gently. "It seemed like it meant something more to you."

Zain sighed, running a hand through his hair. "It's the past," he said, his voice tinged with bitterness. "I don't want to be reminded of it. I despise everything about it."