Life is one precious gift, a fragile treasure that slips quietly through our fingers if we fail to cherish it. We often realize its beauty only when it's gone, when it's far too late to grasp it again. And sometimes, the desire to hold on to life, to fight for every breath, comes down to one person — one soul whose presence makes survival not just a duty, but a calling.
Ever since I began living as Hakeem, since fate allowed me to meet Rihanat once again, she had been the anchor that held me in this life. She became my reason to survive this particular incarnation, no matter what storms awaited me. Even though I had not yet met my mother in this life, I knew — somehow, with unshakable certainty — that Rihanat would be the bridge. Through her, I could find my mother again and finally explain everything I had endured.
The first time we sat together, I told her my story — though not openly claiming it as my own life. I spoke in riddles, in the guise of fiction, narrating my countless deaths as if I were merely an author reading from the pages of a yet-unfinished novel. And from that day onward, whenever she visited the café, I spoke to her. I poured my soul into every word, weaving my pain and my memories into stories only she could hear.
"But why," she asked one evening, her eyes wide with a mixture of curiosity and sadness, "why did the protagonist of your story never once visit his mother? If it were me, I'd visit her every single day."
Her question hit me like a dagger, the chill of it crawling down my spine. My breath caught, and I realized I didn't know how to answer. She had no idea she was speaking to the very man she thought was fictional, no idea that her question had pierced straight through me.
"It's because…" I began, my voice low, almost breaking, "because he doesn't think he could stand it. He's afraid it would be too painful to see her again, after all that he's put her through."
I could feel my eyes burning, my voice trembling as I forced the words out. The truth of it was too close and too raw. I fought to hold back the tears, but they came anyway, blurring the outline of her face. Rihanat's gaze softened; she tilted her head slightly, a faint smirk tugging at her lips, though her eyes shimmered with understanding.
"You're saying it like it's your own experience," she teased gently, but there was no mockery in her tone. "You know… I'd like to hear what happens next. Don't stop."
I nodded, swallowing the ache in my throat. But before I could continue, I noticed the windows outside. The light had faded; the streets beyond were cloaked in night. Time had slipped through our fingers and the hours stolen away by conversation. It seemed to fly faster now that I had her beside me, sharing moments that mattered.
"I should get going," she said at last, standing and gathering her things.
I watched her walk toward the door, the soft swish of her coat fading into the hum of the café. Through the glass, I followed her figure as she stepped into the street, the glow of streetlamps painting her in gold. She didn't look back, and a heaviness settled deep in my chest.
And then, as if the heavens mirrored my mood, it began to rain.
I noticed she had no umbrella when she came in. Instinct took over and I grabbed one from behind the counter and rushed out into the night, calling her name. The rain soaked my shirt in seconds, but I didn't care.
"It suddenly started raining," I said, breathless, holding the umbrella out to her. "Take this."
"I'm fine," she said, hesitating.
"You'll catch a cold," I insisted, pressing it toward her. "Just take it and go home. And… we should do this again tomorrow."
She accepted it then, thanking me softly before walking away, the umbrella now a fragile shield between her and the downpour. My heart ached as I watched her disappear down the street. The pain of seeing her again was impossible to comprehend — a mixture of joy, longing, and guilt that threatened to crush me. But I decided, right then, that I would make the best of this moment, however brief. I would protect this life, and I would protect her. Whatever Death had in store for me, I would not allow harm to befall Rihanat. Not under my watch.
Back inside the café, I dried off, tied my apron, and returned to serving customers. The mundane rhythm of work was almost enough to ground me again — until a sudden shattering sound broke the calm.
A woman at one of the tables had accidentally knocked a glass to the floor. I rushed over before she could try to pick it up. "Don't worry, I've got it," I said, crouching down to sweep the shards together. But in my haste, one sharp edge cut into my palm.
Blood welled instantly, warm and red, dripping onto the floor. I wrapped a napkin around it and continued toward the bin, but my attention was drawn by flashing blue and red lights outside. A police car and an ambulance sped past the café. I glanced at them briefly, assuming it was an unrelated incident, and thought no more of it.
Until a customer walked in, shaking the rain from his coat.
"How unfortunate," he murmured to the barista. "I hope she didn't die in that accident."
"What accident?" another customer asked.
"Just now — right up the road. I think the woman involved comes here often."
The words hit me like a hammer. My breath caught. The rain had barely stopped — there was no way Rihanat could have gotten home so quickly.
"Rihanat…" Her name tore from my throat before I could stop it.
Without another word, I bolted from the café, sprinting into the wet streets. My chest burned with each step, my lungs straining as I called her name over and over. The words of Death echoed in my mind — the promise that the pain she brought me would only grow worse. I tried to push them away, but the more I ran, the more my mind spun toward the worst.
"It can't be," I muttered under my breath as the accident site came into view.
And then I saw it.
The umbrella. The same one I had just placed into her hands, lying in the middle of the street. Blood streaked across its fabric like some cruel signature. My vision blurred.
I forced my way toward it, but a line of police officers blocked me. They told me to stay back. My body wouldn't listen. I struggled against their grip, desperation clawing at my chest.
"Is she alive?!" I shouted. "Tell me she's alive!"
They held me firmly, pushing me back, but I fought harder, and my voice cracking, tears streaming freely now.
And then — a voice.
When I looked up, there she was. Standing across the street, with the umbrella still in her hand, whole and unharmed.
For a moment, the world stopped spinning. Relief washed over me so fiercely I almost collapsed. My knees felt weak and my breath ragged. The blood from my hand was dripping freely now, but it meant nothing. As long as she is safe.
She noticed the cut instantly and crossed to me, with concern furrowing her brow.
"Are you alright?" she asked, reaching for my hand.
"Yes… it's nothing. Not a deep cut," I managed, still catching my breath.
But she didn't look convinced. "Not your hand," she said. Her eyes searched mine. "You came running earlier. I saw you."
I couldn't tell her the truth — that I'd been running because of her. That in another life, she had been my fiancée. That I'd died and left her shattered. Instead, I forced a smile.
"I thought it was someone I knew," I said lightly.
"It must be someone who means a lot to you," she replied. "You looked… startled."
If only she knew. If only she understood that she was the one I would run through fire for.
"It's fine," she continued after a pause, her voice softer now. "Because I know how that feels. Watching you earlier… made me think… that I might've looked like you did today, on that day."
I froze. "That day?"
Her gaze dropped. "The day he… the day he died."
The memory crashed into me like a wave. I saw her again — running through the hospital corridors, pleading with the doctors to tell her it wasn't true. Her voice breaking as they avoided her eyes. The devastation on her face, the way her hands trembled and the disbelief in every tear.
I swallowed hard. She still carried that wound. It was etched into her, unhealed. And standing there, hearing her voice crack even now, I felt the weight of my sins pressing harder than ever.
Death had been right all along. I had caused enough pain to the ones who loved me most. And still, I dared to curse her for punishing me.
No more.
It was time to make things right — to ease her pain, to mend what I had broken. Even if it took this entire life, even if I had to fight Death herself, I would give Rihanat back the peace I stole from her.