MOHABBAT- a doomed love

20. black pen

The courtyard hummed with life. Children ran in circles, laughter spilling into the warm afternoon air as a game of hide-and-seek unfolded.

In the middle of it all was a six-year-old boy, quick on his feet and louder than most, thrilled by the chase. His mother stood nearby with other women, lost in conversation, though her eyes kept drifting back to him—brief glances, the kind only a mother gives.

A little away from the noise, a girl of about the same age walked slowly beside her father. Her hand fit snugly into his, and unlike the others, she wasn’t running or shouting.

She moved with quiet curiosity, taking in the cracked walls, the sunlight reflecting off windows, the shapes people made when they laughed. She seemed content simply watching.

When it was the boy’s turn to hide, he ran toward the far edge of the courtyard. There stood an old structure, its roof made of mirror panels dulled by dust and time. Thin cracks crawled across the glass, and one of its pillars leaned slightly, weakened long ago.

The boy didn’t notice. To him, it was the perfect hiding place. He crouched beneath it, pressing himself small, holding his breath as footsteps rushed past.

Then the air shifted.

A football came flying across the courtyard and struck the pillar with force.

The sound was sharp, violent. The boy looked up, his heart slamming against his ribs. He tried to move, but his legs wouldn’t budge.

They felt locked, frozen. Panic climbed fast. His throat tightened, and instinct took over. He curled into himself, arms wrapped around his knees, eyes squeezed shut.

Krrr—chaaak—crash.

The mirror roof gave way.

Glass shattered, splitting the sky into fragments.

But the pain never came.

No sharp sting. No burning cut.

When he slowly opened his eyes, confused and trembling, someone was standing over him.

The girl.

She stood between him and the broken roof, her back turned toward the falling glass. Her small body curved protectively, as if she had decided—without hesitation—that she would take the impact instead of him.

A large shard of mirror was buried deep into her back. Blood streamed down, dark and relentless, pooling at her feet.

She didn’t scream.

She didn’t cry.

She only stood there, shaking, until she knew he was safe.

Then the world erupted.

People screamed. Feet rushed toward them. His mother reached him first, lifting him into her arms, checking his body over and over again, whispering his name like a prayer. He clung to her, silent, his mind unable to process what had just happened.

The girl swayed, pressing one hand against the wall to steady herself. Her breathing grew shallow. Just before her knees gave way and she collapsed onto the scattered glass, her father caught her.

Without a word, without a backward glance, he carried her and ran toward the hospital.

That night, the boy was taken home.

His mother barely spoke. She fed him, changed his clothes, and tucked him into bed with hands that still trembled.

For her, looking away for a single second haunted her.