Hearts Anointed

9

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The faint hum of the refrigerator filled the kitchen, accompanied by the rhythmic sound of a knife scraping against a sharpening stone. A dim light cast long shadows across the room, its source a small overhead bulb that flickered intermittently. On the counter lay a cutting board surrounded by an array of ingredients: a half-peeled onion, a bright green pepper, a small bowl of pre-measured spices, and a packet of instant noodles. Salman's phone, propped against a jar of salt, illuminated the area with its torchlight, casting a pale beam across his meticulous setup.

Scrrrkkk. Scrrrkkk.

The knife glided across the stone, its edge becoming sharper with each pass. But Salman's thoughts were far from the task at hand.

Her smile.

A faint tug at his lips betrayed his serious expression. Her smile lingered in his thoughts like a melody, warm and unshakable. But it wasn't just her smile—it was everything. The way her eyes softened when she listened, the calm strength in her voice, the quiet grace with which she carried herself. She was... different. And she made him feel different too.

He shook his head, exhaling through his nose. He'd never felt like this before—this unsettling mix of restlessness and excitement, of hope and fear. He didn't even know what to call it. Obsession? No, that felt too heavy. Whatever it was, it had him sharpening knives at 3 a.m.

"Salman."

He froze.

"Salman!"

The whisper-shout made him look up sharply. Hamraz was standing by the kitchen door, wide-eyed, barefoot, and holding a glass of water like a weapon.

"What on earth are you doing?" Hamraz hissed, glancing nervously at the knife in Salman's hand.

Salman blinked, realizing how bizarre the scene must look. "I couldn't sleep," he said simply, setting the knife down.

"So you decided to sharpen a knife?" Hamraz's voice rose slightly, his eyes darting between Salman and the blade.

"I was going to cook noodles," Salman explained, holding up the now-sharpened knife and gesturing to the ingredients on the counter. "The knife was blunt."

"And it couldn't wait until morning?"

Salman sighed, leaning back against the counter. "I didn't think about that."

Hamraz didn't move. He just stared at Salman, like he was reevaluating all his life choices. "Let me get this straight. You woke up, couldn't sleep, decided to cook noodles, and then thought, 'Oh, you know what's a great idea? Sharpening a knife in the pitch-black kitchen at 3 a.m.'?"

"Exactly."

"Right," Hamraz said slowly, his eyes narrowing. "Should I call someone? Or... are we just rolling with this?"

Salman sighed, setting the knife down. "Relax, Hamraz. I'm not losing it."

"You sure? Because from where I'm standing, this feels like the beginning of a true-crime documentary."

"I wasn't planning anything sinister," Salman muttered, rubbing his temple. "I just couldn't sleep."

"And you thought stabbing noodles with a sharp knife would fix that?"

Salman shot him a look but didn't answer. Instead, he turned back to the counter, resuming his work of preparing his midnight feast.

Hamraz stepped cautiously into the kitchen, setting his glass down. "You know, normal people drink warm milk or scroll through their phones when they can't sleep. They don't start prepping stir-fry at 3 a.m."