The Grave Beneath the Roses
Aahil entered his room, the silence almost accusing. He approached the locker with hesitant fingers, unlocking a world he had tried to bury. Inside lay a bridal dress—untouched, wrapped in tissue like sacred cloth—some old letters, and a photo frame with a cracked corner.
He stared.
His gaze softened for a fleeting second before turning cold again. With a bitter breath, he shoved the memories back into their cage, locked the door, and collapsed onto the bed, the weight of everything pressing into his chest.
Just then, the voice of Justice Shah broke the silence like a gavel striking down.
"You think wallowing in memories is your duty now? Is this how you honor your family?"
Aahil didn't flinch.
"I raised you to be stronger than this," Shah snapped. "I thought you would be the kind of man who'd face his demons—not hide in corners from a gust of wind. If I knew you'd turn into this... this coward, I would've preferred never having a son."
Aahil's jaw clenched. Without looking up, he muttered beneath his breath, "Then pray that your wish comes true."
He rose to his feet, grabbed his keys, and left—leaving his father's words hanging in the air like a curse.
The car engine roared to life but choked midway, sputtering to a stop. Instead of fixing it, Aahil got out and sprinted the rest of the way, as if something was pulling him forward.
He arrived at a park—quiet, serene, touched by morning dew. Beneath a canopy of cherry blossoms stood a girl, wrapped in a delicate white dress that clung to her like a whisper of the past. The fabric fluttered slightly in the breeze, soft as a sigh, its sheer chiffon sleeves brushing against her arms like ghosted memories. Her dress flowed down to her ankles, simple yet ethereal, cinched at the waist with a satin ribbon that gleamed faintly with every shift of her breath.
Around her neck, a delicate silver chain glinted and her eyes, deep and shimmering with unspoken emotion. Her bare feet pressed gently into the grass beneath her, as if the earth itself wasn't ready to let her go.
Her back was to him, but she didn't need to turn. She knew he was here.
"You're late," she said softly.
"I didn't mean to be," he answered, breathless. "Forgive me."
She smirked faintly, still not meeting his eyes. "Forgiveness comes at a price."
He stepped closer. "Then take my life. It's yours."
"Don't say that," she snapped, hurt flickering across her features.
Without another word, he pulled her close. Her scent, familiar and intoxicating, pulled him under like a lullaby he never wanted to wake from.
"Anushka…" he breathed.
She melted into the hug. But when he dropped to one knee, revealing a velvet box with a silver ring, her breath caught.
She slipped the ring on. "I wish I could give you something too."
"You already have," he whispered. "You gave me you."
Her lips trembled. "Then why won't you let me go?"
His gaze darkened. "Because I don't want to move on. I want you. With me."
"Aahil…" she said, voice shaking, "You're wasting your life. You deserve more than this."
He reached out, palm open. "Then walk this life with me. That's all I ask."
She stared at his hand. It hovered between them like a vow waiting to be taken. Her fingers twitched forward—
BANG.
Aahil jolted upright, drenched in sweat, heart pounding like war drums in his chest.
It was a dream.
But the ache in his chest was not.
He sat up slowly, glancing at the calendar. August 27th. His breath caught again. Of course.
He changed into a crimson-white shalwar kameez, his hands moving with mechanical precision. He walked past the kitchen, ignoring Raneya's startled call for breakfast as he left without so much as a glance.
Justice Shah and Razia Begum watched quietly from the hallway. They didn't stop him.
They knew exactly where he was going.
Aahil drove like a man possessed, stopping only once to buy a bouquet of white lilies and fresh rose petals. He reached the gates of Gizri Graveyard, the rusted sign swaying in the morning breeze.
His steps slowed.
He found the grave easily—he'd visited it enough. The marble read:
Anushka Aahil Shah.
He knelt, placing the flowers and memories down gently. The photo. The bridal dress. The last pieces of a future that never was.
The grave was still.
But Aahil remained frozen in front of it, the wind playing with the petals he had just placed, as though even nature mourned with him.
And then… the memories came.
They weren't like before—not chaotic flashes. This time, they came softly, like a lullaby.
Eight Years Ago…
"You really think I can pull off this color?" Anushka asked, twirling in a deep wine-red lehenga, her laughter like bells in a temple.
"You could wear rags and still stop hearts," Aahil replied from the bed, chin resting on his palm, watching her like she was the only art worth admiring.
"Flirt," she giggled, then sobered. "I wish we could stay like this forever."
"You don't have to wish it," he whispered, walking over and wrapping his arms around her. "Just stay."
Her smile faltered. Something in her eyes flickered—fear? Regret?
"Aahil…" she said cautiously, "What if something goes wrong?"
"What could go wrong, Anu? We're almost there. A few more days and we're husband and wife. No one can stop us now."
His mind flickered with scenes—of her laughter, their stolen kisses, their whispered promises… and then, the brutal flash of metal, blood, and two twisted bodies lying in death's embrace, hands still joined.
Aahil's eyes darkened.
But he said nothing.
He stood quietly, brushed invisible dust off his shalwar, and walked back toward the car.
No tears.
No goodbye.
Just silence—and the grave beneath the roses.