Later that night, the house had grown quiet. The voices from the lounge, the clinking of teacups, even the occasional creak of the haveli's wooden doors had faded into silence. In Huzaifa and Rukhsar's room, a soft lamp glowed on the nightstand, casting a golden light across the walls. Kaif lay on the bed between them, bundled in his tiny quilt, his breathing steady and soft.

Rukhsar sat cross-legged, eyes fixed on her son. Her hand gently brushed across his forehead as though checking again if the fever was truly gone. Huzaifa, sitting at the edge of the bed, watched quietly.