Dhaagey: The Ties that Bind Us

41. one soul

Author's Note: Helllooooo! Sad that no one sent me cute shoes for the last chapter, but we move. Hope y'all like this chapter - finding myself super-invested in Dhaagey these days, so the next chapter should likely be up in a week at the most! Let me know if this chapter reminds you of something, hehehe. Oh, this is safe to read for Ramadan, no smut, etc!

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Maryam had not expected the call at four in the morning.

She had been pulled from the depths of sleep, dragged into wakefulness by the shrill ring of her phone, its sound cutting through the silence of the night like a blade. For a moment, she had lain there in the dark, her mind sluggish with exhaustion, heart steady in the calm before the storm. And then, with a slow, creeping sense of dread curling in her chest, she had reached for the device, barely registering the name on the screen before answering.

Armaan.

His voice had been tense, clipped, carrying an urgency that had sent ice through her veins before he had even spoken the words that would alter the very foundation of her world.

"Maryam, it's Murtasim...he's hurt, he's dying."

And just like that, time had ceased to move.

There were some things in life that did not seem possible, some truths that did not-could not-exist within the reality she knew. Murtasim hurt? Murtasim dying? No, the very thought was inconceivable. Murtasim was their constant, the force of nature who had never faltered, never stumbled. He had always been larger than life, invincible in a way that defied reason. He was the protector, the shield that stood between them and the world. If something had happened to him, if something had managed to reach him, then what did that mean for the rest of them?

For a moment, she had forgotten how to breathe.

She could still hear Armaan's voice in her head, sharp and relentless as he had rattled off directions, telling her where to go, what to do. But she had not needed his words. She had already been moving, yanking open her closet with shaking hands, pulling on the first thing she found, her limbs moving on instinct while her mind remained paralyzed with a single, unbearable truth.

Murtasim was hurt.

Now, hours later, she walked through the quiet corridors of a hospital too far from home, her heart pounding in her chest with every step. The air was thick with the scent of antiseptic and something else-something cold and clinical, the kind of smell that lingered on skin, that clung to fabric long after one had left.

The walls were a pristine white, the lighting soft, carefully designed to instill a sense of calm, but nothing about this place felt calm. It was too quiet.

Her mother walked beside her, rigid, unyielding.

Maa Begum, who always panicked, who had spent years fretting over Murtasim, worrying about his every move, reprimanding him for every risk taken, every late night spent out, every battle he had waged for the family.

And yet, tonight, she was silent.

Maryam turned to look at her, waiting for her to break, to speak, to say something that would fill the suffocating void between them. But her mother's face was unreadable, her expression a mask of restraint, as if the weight of her grief had not yet settled, as if she refused to give it shape before she saw her son with her own eyes.

Maryam did not know how to cope.

She did not think her mother did either.

The waiting area of the private hospital was unlike the ones she had known. It was not crowded, not lined with rows of restless people shifting uncomfortably in hard plastic chairs. No, this was a place of wealth and power, where silence reigned and comfort was carefully curated. The seats were lush, the floors gleamed, the air hummed with the faint buzz of distant activity.