The steady rumble of the train filled the air, a constant companion on the journey that stretched before them. It was the summer of 1974, and the Karachi Express, with its worn-out, rusted exterior, was making its way through the plains of Pakistan, cutting through the sun-soaked fields like a giant serpent. The wooden benches, once polished, were now rough with age, and the compartment smelled faintly of dust, old leather, and the faintest hint of jasmine from someone’s luggage. Yet the golden afternoon light pouring in through the wide windows bathed everything in a warm, melancholy glow, making the fading world outside feel distant, dreamlike.
Meerab sat by the window, her body rigid with the kind of tension that only comes from carrying the weight of decisions that have already been made. She wore a soft ivory kameez with intricate embroidery at the cuffs, her dupatta draped loosely over her head, though it couldn’t contain the loose strands of her dark hair that escaped to frame her delicate face. Her eyes, though striking, held a sadness that was deeper than the soft curve of her lips could hide. They were the eyes of a woman who had resigned herself to a life that was no longer her own.
Her father, an influential businessman, had made the decision for her. The man she was set to marry was the son of another powerful family—a merger, her father called it, one that would secure the future of their business empire. Rehan was handsome, successful, and utterly indifferent to Meerab as a person. They had barely exchanged words in the few times they met, and she could already see the outline of her future—polite silences, formal dinners, a house that echoed with emptiness. She would live in his mansion, bear his children, and spend her life as an accessory to his achievements.
Meerab stared out of the window, watching the green fields blur as the train moved forward, and felt a sharp pain in her chest—**Was this all there was to her life?** She had never been given the choice. Her life had always been dictated by others—her father’s expectations, her family’s reputation. **It wasn’t fair,** she thought, her hands clenching in her lap, twisting the delicate fabric of her dupatta between her fingers. But when had life ever been fair?
Her gaze shifted to her reflection in the window, and for a moment, she hardly recognized the woman staring back at her. The faint lines of worry etched into her once-smooth brow, the dullness in her eyes. She had once dreamed of a life filled with love, of passion and excitement, of choosing her own path. But those dreams had been buried long ago, suffocated under the weight of duty.
Across the narrow aisle sat Murtasim, his tall frame relaxed against the worn wooden seat, his eyes half-closed as if lost in thought. His simple white shalwar kameez was clean, though it had the look of being well-worn, the fabric soft from too many washes. He had a rugged handsomeness about him—dark hair that fell messily over his forehead, a strong jawline softened by a few days' worth of stubble, and eyes that, when opened, carried a depth that seemed out of place in a man so young.
Murtasim wasn’t wealthy, nor did he come from a family of means. He was a singer—though he often wondered if he could even call himself that. He had spent years chasing a dream that seemed to slip further away with each passing day. His life was a series of temporary gigs, small stages, and nights spent in cheap lodgings. But music was the only thing that kept him going—the only thing that made him feel alive in a world that often felt unbearably heavy.
As the train rocked gently along the tracks, Murtasim’s gaze wandered to the woman sitting across from him. She hadn’t spoken a word since they boarded, but there was something about her that caught his attention. Maybe it was the way she sat so still, so poised, yet with an unmistakable air of sadness clinging to her like a second skin. Her beauty was undeniable, but it was the quiet melancholy in her eyes that drew him in—the same look he often saw in his own reflection after a long night of singing to half-empty rooms.
