Lahore, 1916
The monsoon came late that year.
The first storm broke over Lahore in the dead of night, thundering down upon the sleeping city with a vengeance. The sky cracked open with lightning, and the rooftops of the old city echoed with the rhythm of the rain like a thousand quiet sobs.
In a crumbling haveli on the outskirts of Mochi Gate, Meerab stood by the window of her father's study, watching the water pour in thin streams from the eaves. Her dupatta had slipped from her head, revealing hair still damp from the earlier drizzle. She held a book in her hand, though she hadn't turned a page in the last hour. Her eyes were drawn, always, to the gate outside.
He hadn't come.
Murtasim.
She shouldn't have expected him. Not after what she'd said the week before. Not after she'd spat her anger into his silence and watched his eyes harden before he turned away. But still, she had hoped. There was always hope, foolish and fragile, growing in her chest like jasmine in the dark—without sun, without reason, just scent and yearning.
The thunder rolled again, and her hands trembled.
Murtasim had always come when it rained.
It was something childish between them. A memory from a simpler time, when they were just neighbors — he, the wild boy with dusty feet and scraped knees; she, the stubborn girl with ink-stained fingers and a thousand questions. Whenever it stormed, he would knock on the side gate, soaked and grinning, and say, "Meerab, come see — the sky's crying for us again."
Even as they grew older, as his voice deepened and her anger sharpened, it remained their unspoken ritual.
But not this time.
Not since the silence.
Not since the fight.
She pressed her forehead against the cool glass and closed her eyes.
One Week Earlier
The sun had hung low over the courtyard, bleeding orange through the lattice screens. She'd been in the garden, sitting on the old swing, nursing a cup of bitter tea. The smell of ripening guavas hung in the air. And then she'd heard his voice — low, tentative.
"Meerab."
She hadn't looked up.
"Meerab, I'm leaving."
Now she had. Slowly. Her brows pulled together.
"For where?"
He stood in his old kurta, his hands stuffed into his pockets. His hair was messy — it always was — but there was something different about his posture. Something distant.
"For Bombay first," he said. "Then... to fight."
She laughed.
Not out of joy.
A short, disbelieving sound.
"You?"
He nodded.
"For the British?" she asked, and the venom in her tone was unmistakable.
He didn't flinch.
"Yes."
She stood now, dropping her cup with a shatter.
"You would fight for the same people who stole our land, our names, our freedom?"
"I would fight for my family," he said calmly. "They gave us an offer. If I serve, they forgive the tax debt. My mother can keep the land. My sisters can marry well."
