Arshad’s POV

"Arshad, look," I heard Adil and turned to him. He walked toward me holding a letter and the money I had given to Isha along with my card.

He handed me the letter. I opened it.

Assalamualaikum,

I’m Isha. I hope you remember my name.

First of all, I want to thank you for saving my life. You don’t know how grateful I am to you. I know in doing this, you had to go through so much. You had to betray your wife. You had to marry me. Please don’t think you’re a bad person, because you’re not. You just helped me. You just freed me from that dungeon.

That’s why I can’t ruin your life. What you told me made it clear that your wife won’t accept this and could leave you. And I don’t want this to happen to you. You did nothing wrong, so you don’t deserve any punishment.

You can’t accept me as your wife, and I can totally understand. But please, also understand that I can’t take your help anymore. I don’t want to be a burden on you. So, I’m leaving your life. I won’t bother you. Don’t worry, I promise my lips will remain sealed until my last breath.

With sincerity,

Isha Abdullah

I sighed and sat on the couch, staring at the letter, the money, and the card. She didn’t even take the money.

“So, she left?” Adil asked, staring at the letter. “Now what?”

“I don’t know. She could have talked to me,” I muttered, rubbing my forehead. “That stupid girl didn’t even take money. She’s new to this city.” I couldn’t help but worry about her safety.

“It’s good that she won’t bother you. And she’s right. You would never accept her, so what’s the point of taking your money? It would only make her feel like a burden.”

“Yaar, she’s in my nikkah. Her safety is my responsibility. How could she take a step like this in a strange city? It wasn’t our choice, it was Allah’s will,” I said, my voice filled with both anger and worry.

“Did you talk to her about your marriage with her? Did you tell her to have patience, that you would think of something? Did you console her? No, you didn’t. She mentioned here that you told her about Sofia and how Sofia would feel, and how neither she nor you could accept this marriage. You could have talked to her in some other way—nicely. You told me she was only a seventeen-year-old girl. A kid. Then how could you leave her alone in this apartment at night, in a city that’s strange to her? She needed you, but you only thought about yourself and left her here alone,” he said in a disappointed tone, causing a sudden wave of guilt to crash over me.

“I was also stressed, yaar,” I reasoned weakly.

“We should find her. She’s alone and innocent in this cruel city, Arshad,” he said after a while, this time filling me with an unknown fear. She was too innocent a girl to survive here alone. I remembered—she didn’t even know how to open a car door.

“You’re right. Let’s go, we need to find her.”

We both walked out of the apartment.

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Isha’s POV

I was walking in the street with my suitcase. My dupatta was securely wrapped around my head and half of my upper body. I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t know what I would do. But I knew one thing: I couldn’t ruin the man who saved me. I couldn’t burden him. Moreover, it was decided before I ran away from the house that I would live on my own.

First, I needed some money, and for that, I had to sell some of my mother’s jewellery. I looked around to find a jewellery shop.

After a few minutes of searching, I found one. I went inside and looked around. My heart was beating faster. This city was certainly strange to me. I stared at the people in the shop—they all looked wealthy. I bit my lips and fisted my hands on my kameez (shirt).

“How may I help you?” a girl approached me with a small smile on her face. She looked at me and then at my suitcase.

“Um… I… I nee… need to sell… something,” I stammered. She stared at me silently, making me nervous.

“Come with me,” she said after a few minutes. She took me to an older man, who seemed like the owner of the shop. She told him something in a hush. I was starting to feel frightened.

“What do you want to sell?” that old man asked. I gulped and looked into my bag to find my small ring. My baba gave me that ring on my 10th birthday. But after he died, my stepmother took everything from me. I was grateful to Najma—she had stolen my mother’s jewellery from her mother’s locker and given it to me.

I couldn’t find my ring at first, so I started taking out my things. I placed a photo frame of my parents, my mother’s wedding necklace, a few gold bangles, earrings, and rings on the counter. Finally, I found that small ring. I smiled and pulled it out, looking up at the man who was now eyeing my jewellery with wide eyes. I frowned and cleared my throat.

“Uh… I want to sell this,” I said in a low tone and placed the ring on the counter, before quickly stuffing my other things back into the bag. He grabbed the ring and stared at it before disappearing into the door behind the counter.

I looked around and waited for him to come back. There were a few people in the shop, busy buying jewellery. After a few minutes, the man returned.

“So, it’s yours?” he asked. I nodded. He glared at me. I felt uncomfortable under his gaze.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“Uh… I… I’m… it’s none of your business,” I said, trying to sound confident. “Ca… can you please gi… give me a reas… reasonable price for my… my ring?” I stuttered.

“Wait a few minutes,” he said before walking away.

Time passed, and I grew anxious. I didn’t know how long I had been waiting, but soon that same girl who had greeted me when I entered the shop came back—this time with a few cops behind her. I looked away and waited again for the old man.

“She’s that girl,” I heard him say. I looked toward the voice and saw him pointing at me. The policemen’s eyes followed his direction until they settled on me.

My heart sank and fear crawled over my skin. The policeman, with a lady constable behind him, walked toward me. I stood up, my eyes wide. Panicking, I grabbed my bag and suitcase and was about to run, but the lady constable grabbed my arm.

“Where to, madam?” she asked, glaring at me.

“Leave me! What are you doing?” I struggled to break free, but she dug her fingers into my soft, fragile arms, making painful tears well up in my eyes.

“I found it strange for a girl like her to have such expensive old gold. You can see it in her bag—necklaces, earrings, bangles. Clearly, she stole it from somewhere,” the old man said. I stared at him with wide eyes and shook my head.

“No! It’s mine! It’s my mother’s jewellery!” I defended myself, but the woman twisted my arm, making me yelp in pain.

“Lower your voice, girl! Now tell us—whose jewellery is this, and from where did you steal it?” she asked with a deadly glare. My stomach churned with fear and my head started spinning.

“Look, you seem to be under 18. So tell me whose things these are!” the policeman asked.

“It’s mine! Khuda ki kasam ye mera hai. Main ne koi chori nahi ki! Yaqeen kare mere (I swear to God, it’s mine. I didn’t steal anything, trust me)!” I cried, but the man looked at the constable, who twisted my arm again.

“Ya Khuda! (Oh God!)” I screamed in pain, tears falling uncontrollably.

“Jubail?” I heard someone. I looked up at the policeman through my tears. He turned around. An older woman in her late 40s appeared. She looked wealthy, dressed in a saree, with her pallu (veil) loosely covering her head.

“Bhabi,” the policeman smiled softly at her.

“What are you doing?” she asked him, then looked at me before turning back to him.

“Duty. This girl stole gold from somewhere.”

“No! I haven’t! This is mine! Ye mere hai! (It’s mine!)” I sobbed. The woman looked at me with sympathy.

“Leave her. Let me talk to her,” she said to the lady constable. The constable looked at the policeman, who nodded, and the cruel woman finally released me. I rubbed my arms, feeling the stinging pain.

“Beta, tell me the truth. If you stole it, say from where. I promise no one will harm you,” she asked gently, with a soft, encouraging smile.

“Main… maine na… nahi ki cho… chori… Mama ki jewellery hai… Khuda ki kasam maine kuch nahi kiya. Main nayi hoon is sheher mein (I didn’t… I didn’t steal… It’s my mother’s jewellery. I swear to God, I didn’t do anything. I’m new to this city),” I said. For some reason, her presence felt motherly. I felt like she would save me. She looked at the man, then back at me, and shook her head.

“She is barely 18. Can’t you see how innocent she is?” the woman scolded him.

“Bhabi, I can’t do anything. She needs to prove it’s hers,” he replied.

She looked at me. “Beta, can you prove it’s yours?” she asked. I stared at her, confused. How could I prove it?

“I… I don’t know,” I whispered, fisting my hands on my kameez, trying hard to think.

Khudaya, madad kar (Oh God, help me).

I prayed silently as tears rolled down my cheeks.

“She can’t prove it because it’s not hers, sir,” the jewellery owner said. “Don’t know from where she stole it. She even has photo frames—it could help you find the real owner.”

Suddenly, something clicked.

“Photo frame. My parents’ photo.” I smiled, opened my bag, and took out two photo frames. “Ye dekhein. Meri Mama aur Baba ki shaadi ki tasveer (Look at this—my parents’ wedding photo).” I showed the woman. She held the picture. I took out another photo and my mother’s wedding necklace. “Look, she’s wearing this same necklace in her wedding picture. And look, this is me with my baba,” I showed them another photo. It was taken before he died, when I was 12.

The older woman smiled. “She proved it. Now let the girl breathe, Junaid,” she said angrily. They all nodded and left the shop. I finally released a breath.

“Shuk… shukriya (thank you, aunty),” I said with trembling lips. She looked at me, placed her hand on my arm, and made me sit back on the stool. The man behind the counter, the one I had given my ring to, placed it back in front of me.

“Beta, now tell me, where are you from? And why are you roaming with your luggage?” she asked softly. A sob escaped me at the warmth in her voice.

“I… I ran fr… from my vil… village,” I stuttered. She looked at me worriedly.

“You shouldn’t have done that, girl,” she said disapprovingly. “Your parents must be hurt by—”

“They’re not anymore. They died. I’m an orphan,” I mumbled.

“Oh, bacche (dear child),” she hugged me, catching me off guard.

“Why did you run away? Don’t you have any relatives?” she asked after a while.

“I… I have my stepmother but…” I trailed off.

“But what?”

“She… she wanted to sell me to an older man.” I looked down in embarrassment. She was silent for a moment, and I didn’t know what she was thinking.

“Ya mere Khuda (Oh my God),” I heard her shaky voice.

“What is your village’s name?” she asked after some time.

“Khudakhair,” I replied.

“What!? Really? I also belong to that village,” she said. I looked up at her.

“Jee? (Really?)” I asked, studying her. She didn’t look like someone from my village—she seemed wealthy and modern.

“Haan (yes), but I moved to this city 27 years ago after my marriage,” she replied. I looked down.

I also moved to this city after my marriage, I wanted to say, but I remained silent.

“Toh, kab aayi tum yahan? Aur kabse aise ghoom rahi ho? (So, when did you come here? And since when have you been roaming like this?)”

“Main kal raat aayi, mere sho… (I came last night, with my hus…)” I stopped myself before completing the sentence.

“Tumhare…? (Your…?)” she asked, raising her eyebrows.

“Kuch… kuch nahi (No… nothing),” I shook my head. I didn’t know how to excuse myself.

“Kahan thehri tum kal raat? (Where did you stay last night?)”

Ya Khudaya, ye kitne sawal karti hai. (Oh God, she asks so many questions.)

I felt sweat forming on my forehead. I had never lied before, but I thought I had to—for the first and last time—before she let me go.

“In a hotel.”

But little did I know, this was just the beginning of my lies.

“Okay… And where are you going from here? Do you know anyone?” I shook my head.

“I do… don’t know.” My eyes filled with tears again, and my heart sank at the thought that I had nowhere to go.

“You are coming with me to my home,” the woman declared. I snapped my head toward her. She blinked, reassuring me.

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