The night was quiet—an oppressive, stifling kind of quiet that seemed to stretch beyond the small room, into the vast empty spaces of Murtasim Khan’s soul. His breaths were shallow, matching the fragile rhythm of the woman lying beside him. The once indomitable Meerab, who had fought him at every turn, lay still, her fragile chest rising and falling in short, labored breaths. She had lived with fire, defied him with storm, and now she was fading like a soft breeze slipping into the eternal silence of the night.
He sat beside her, the weight of years and memories bearing down on him, making it hard to breathe. His old, calloused hands held hers—so small, so frail now. It was not the firm, defiant grip that had once pushed him away, nor the reluctant hand that had signed the contract that bound them in marriage. Now, it was the hand of a woman who had lived a life filled with love and heartache, and who was slipping away from him, one heartbeat at a time.
"Meerab…" he whispered, his voice raw, barely audible in the stillness. She didn’t stir, but he continued speaking, his voice trembling under the weight of his emotions. "Do you remember, my love? Do you remember how we started?"
He laughed softly, though it was tinged with sorrow. "You hated me. You hated everything about this marriage, about the contract. You wanted to break free from me at every turn."
The memories of their early days came rushing back. Their arranged marriage had been nothing short of a battlefield. She had looked at him with so much anger, so much resentment. He had been a stranger to her, thrust into her life with demands and expectations, but he had not expected to find such a force of nature in her. She had challenged him in ways no one ever had. She had made him question everything he thought he knew about life, about love, about control.
"I was a fool back then," he admitted softly, squeezing her hand. "I thought I could control everything, even you. But you… you showed me how wrong I was."
His gaze traveled over her face, now lined with age, her once fiery eyes closed, her lips pale and motionless. But he remembered those lips—how they had curved into a smirk when she won an argument, how they had trembled when she finally, hesitantly, kissed him back.
"You were my greatest challenge, Meerab," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "And you became my greatest love."
He could still remember the sting of her words during those early days, the constant friction between them, the walls she had built so high that he had often despaired of ever breaking through. And then there was that contract—the contract that had defined the boundaries of their strange marriage, the one that had kept them apart, even when he had wanted nothing more than to tear it up and hold her close.
"That damn contract," he murmured, shaking his head with a small smile. "It was your way of keeping me at arm’s length, wasn’t it?"
But she had been wrong. That contract had done nothing to stop the inevitable. He had fallen in love with her, deeply and irrevocably, despite her resistance, despite her stubborn pride.
"I used to hate it, you know? The way you’d always push me away, how you’d never give me an inch without a fight." His throat tightened as he thought back to those moments, the arguments, the tears, the misunderstandings. "But I think that’s when I truly fell in love with you. Somewhere in those battles, somewhere between your anger and my pride, I found my heart was yours."
His voice faltered, and he brought her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles softly. "I fought so hard to win your love, Meerab. I fought everyone—my family, myself, and even you. But when you finally let me in… God, I didn’t know it was possible to love someone as much as I loved you."
He closed his eyes, memories flashing behind his lids. The first time she had looked at him with something other than anger, the first time she had allowed him to hold her without pulling away, the first time she had whispered his name, not in defiance, but in tenderness.
"And Haya…" he said, his voice growing darker with the weight of that name. "She tried so hard to tear us apart, didn’t she? Always lurking in the shadows, always scheming."
His jaw tightened as he thought of the countless times Haya had lied, had twisted the truth to manipulate their lives. She had almost succeeded once. He remembered the ache of those days when he had nearly lost Meerab, when Haya’s poison had almost destroyed them. But they had fought through it. Meerab had always been stronger than anyone gave her credit for.
"She couldn’t touch us in the end, Meerab. Not really," he whispered, tracing the lines of her hand with his fingers. "Our love was stronger than anything she could ever throw at us."
And then there was Meesam. His lips quirked up at the memory of their daughter, the little hurricane who had taken after her mother in every possible way.
"Our daughter…" he said softly, his heart swelling with both pride and sorrow. "She’s so much like you. She has your fire, your stubbornness, your heart. God, she drove me mad, just like you did."
His laughter was tinged with sadness as he recalled all the moments when Meesam had stood up to him, just like her mother had. "She never let me win an argument either. It was like living with two of you."
He could see her now, Meesam’s fierce gaze, the way she had challenged him at every turn, the way she had loved him just as fiercely. But now, their daughter was far away, living her own life, and he and Meerab were here, in the quiet of their home, waiting for the end.
The moonlight dimmed as the first hints of dawn crept over the horizon. Murtasim could feel it—the slow, inevitable pull of time. His own body was weary, his breaths shallow, his heart heavy.
He turned back to Meerab, her breathing now so faint it was almost undetectable. Her chest barely rose, her fingers limp in his. The realization struck him with the force of a thousand blows: she was leaving him.
"No, not yet, Meerab," he whispered, his voice cracking. "Don’t go yet. I’m not ready."
Tears brimmed in his eyes, and he leaned over, pressing his forehead to hers. "I can’t live without you," he choked out, the words tearing from his throat. "I’ve lived every day of my life for you. Please… don’t leave me."
Her eyes fluttered open, just barely, the faintest flicker of life left in them. She smiled—a soft, weary smile that broke his heart even more. She couldn’t speak, but her gaze told him everything. She was tired. She was ready.
Murtasim’s tears fell freely now, his body trembling as he kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her lips, desperate to hold on to her, to keep her with him for just a little longer.
"I love you, Meerab," he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. "I have always loved you, and I will love you until the end of time."
She closed her eyes again, and with one last, shuddering breath, she was gone.
Murtasim’s world shattered in that moment. The silence that followed was deafening, a void so vast and dark that he could barely breathe. He clutched her to him, burying his face in her neck, sobbing quietly as the dawn light spilled into the room.
"I can’t… I can’t live without you," he whispered into her hair, his heart breaking with every word. "You’re my everything, Meerab. I can’t do this alone."
And then, as if the weight of his grief was too much for his old heart to bear, he felt his body grow heavy, his breaths becoming shallow. His chest ached, his heart slowing. He didn’t fight it. He didn’t want to fight it.
"I’m coming, my love," he whispered, his voice barely audible as his body began to give in to the pull of death. "I’ll be with you soon."
With one last breath, Murtasim Khan closed his eyes, his arms still wrapped around his wife, his heart finally at peace.
When the servants found them, the first rays of sunlight had bathed the room in golden light, casting a soft glow over the two figures lying together in bed, their hands intertwined, their faces serene.
They had lived a lifetime together, through storms and battles, through love and heartache. And now, in the quiet of the dawn, they had found their peace—together, forever.
