Scene 1 – Morning After the Storm
The morning broke reluctantly, as if ashamed to reveal itself. Rain still lingered in thin, stubborn threads that fell from the gray sky. The mosque veranda where Haris, Amina, and Zain had spent the night smelled of damp wool and old books. The imam, kind as ever, offered them cups of tea in chipped mugs before they left.
Haris's cough was worse. Amina clutched his arm tightly as they walked along the flooded street. Zain carried both sacks across his shoulders, his body stooped but his steps firm. They looked like wanderers in their own city—people whose existence was invisible to all but themselves.
"Zain," Amina whispered as they walked, "we can't live like this. We need a roof today. Tonight. Even if it is broken, even if it leaks. Something."
"I know, Ammi," Zain replied quietly. "I'll find something. Insha'Allah."
But hope was a thin thread in his voice, already fraying.
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Scene 2 – The Broker in the Alley
By late afternoon, the three of them reached a narrow market street, half-mud, half-pavement. The air was heavy with the smell of fried pakoras, wet spices, and kerosene. Zain scanned for signs—boards nailed above shopfronts that sometimes carried notes for vacant rooms. Nothing.
Then, as if summoned by their desperation, a man approached. He was of medium height, his white shalwar kameez crisp and dry despite the damp weather. A small notebook bulged from his pocket. He carried an umbrella that he didn't open, letting the drizzle slide down his face. His eyes, sharp and calculating, landed on the family.
"Looking for a place?" he asked smoothly.
Zain stiffened. "Who are you?"
The man smiled. "People call me Saleem. I'm a property broker. I help people find roofs above their heads. And from the look of you three, I'd say you need one."
Amina clutched Haris's arm tighter. Haris looked away, embarrassed, but Amina leaned forward eagerly. "Yes, bhai. Do you know of a place?"
Zain frowned. "We can't afford the usual rent."
Saleem's smile widened, almost knowingly. "Not every house in this city has the same price, my friend. Sometimes fortune comes knocking. Would you like to see?"
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Scene 3 – Suspicion and Temptation
They followed him reluctantly through twisting alleys. Saleem spoke cheerfully, as though this was the most ordinary of transactions.
"There is a house," he said. "Big, airy, even has an upper floor. Not far from here. House No. 13 on Patel Street. The owner… well, let's just say he is in no mood to haggle. He wants tenants immediately. Cheap rent. No deposit."
Zain narrowed his eyes. "Why so cheap? Big houses don't come for free."
Saleem chuckled. "You're a clever boy. Yes, you're right. Normally, such a house would cost three times more. But the landlord is desperate. He wants it occupied. That's all."
Amina whispered to Haris, "Did you hear? Cheap rent. Allah has answered our prayer."
But Zain muttered, "There must be a reason it's empty. Maybe termites, maybe damage."
Saleem's eyes flicked toward him. "No damage. It's in fine condition. Just… some people are superstitious. Rumors about bad luck, whispers of unhappy tenants. You know how people invent stories."
Amina's eyes shone with sudden hope. "Rumors can't hurt us. We've lived in worse places. At least this will have space, a real roof."
Zain stopped walking. The rain tapped against his shoulders, cold and insistent. "Ammi, wait. Doesn't it sound strange? A big house, cheap rent, no deposit? Why didn't anyone else take it?"
Saleem shrugged. "Fear, my boy. Fear of shadows. But you don't look like people who fear shadows."
Haris coughed violently, bending over. Amina rubbed his back, then turned to her son. "Zain, your father is sick. I cannot keep dragging him to mosques and verandas. If Allah has placed a house in front of us, who are we to refuse?"
Zain's jaw clenched, but he said nothing.
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Scene 4 – Arrival at House No. 13
They reached Patel Street by dusk. It was quieter than the crowded bazaar, lined with old colonial-style homes whose walls bore the stains of decades of rain. House No. 13 stood at the very corner, its gate leaning slightly, paint peeling from its wooden panels. A faint smell of damp earth wafted from within.
The house itself rose tall, with shuttered windows and a sloping roof. Creepers climbed along its walls. The number 13 was painted in black above the gate, half-faded but still legible.
"There it is," Saleem said proudly, like a man unveiling a jewel. "What do you think?"
Amina's breath caught. "It's beautiful. So big!"
Zain scowled. "It looks abandoned."
Saleem chuckled. "It has been. But the structure is strong. Come inside."
He pushed the gate open with a creak. The garden beyond was overgrown with weeds, but the stone path remained intact. They walked toward the verandah. The door was tall, with brass handles shaped like lion heads.
Saleem produced a key. The lock clicked open easily, as though the house had been waiting for them.
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Scene 5 – Inside the House
The door swung inward. The air inside was cool and faintly musty, like a place long closed. Dust floated in the light filtering through half-open shutters. The hall stretched wide, with wooden floors and an old staircase leading upward.
Amina gasped with delight. "SubhanAllah! Look at the space!"
She ran her fingers along the railing of the staircase. Haris stepped inside slowly, his cough momentarily forgotten. Zain remained near the door, his unease sharpening.
"Why so quiet?" Zain asked. His voice echoed strangely. "Even an empty house should sound different."
Saleem waved off his concern. "It is solid. See for yourself."
He led them through rooms—one large sitting room with cracked but beautiful tiles, two bedrooms with wide windows, a kitchen with shelves still intact. Upstairs, another pair of rooms waited, their wooden floors groaning faintly as they walked.
Amina's eyes glowed with a mix of awe and gratitude. "This is a palace compared to what we've known."
Zain's unease only grew. He touched the wall of one room and found it damp, his fingertips blackened by mold. He glanced at a closed door at the end of the corridor. It seemed different—heavier somehow, as though it resisted their presence.
"What's in there?" he asked.
Saleem paused, then smiled thinly. "Storage room. Nothing important. Locked."
"Locked by whom?" Zain pressed.
"The landlord," Saleem replied quickly. "He keeps old junk there. Forget it."
But Zain didn't forget. His eyes lingered on that door long after they left the corridor.
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Scene 6 – The Offer
Back in the main hall, Saleem turned to them with a flourish. "So? Do you want it?"
Amina clasped her hands together. "Yes. Yes, we do."
"Ammi!" Zain protested. "We should think first. We don't even know the landlord."
"The rent," Saleem said smoothly, ignoring Zain, "is half of what you'd pay anywhere else. No deposit. Just pay monthly. If you leave, you leave. Simple."
Amina looked at Haris. His tired eyes met hers, and he nodded faintly. "We cannot survive on the streets. If Allah has opened this door, let us walk through it."
Zain turned away in frustration. "You're both too quick to trust."
Saleem chuckled softly. "Sometimes hesitation makes you lose blessings, my boy. Don't worry—this house will protect you from the rain and the cruelty of landlords like Kareem. Think of it as a gift."
But something in his tone felt rehearsed, as if he had spoken those same words to others before. Still, Amina's resolve was firm. She placed her hand on Haris's and whispered, "This is our chance."
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Scene 7 – Shadows in the Corner
As Saleem prepared to leave, promising to bring papers the next morning, the family lingered in the hall. The light was dim now, the day fading into evening.
Zain carried the sacks inside reluctantly. The echo of his footsteps disturbed the silence. He felt eyes on him, though the windows were shuttered.
From the corner of the hall, near the staircase, a shadow seemed thicker than it should have been. It didn't move with the swaying of the light. It only stood, watching. When Zain blinked, it was gone.
He set the sacks down roughly. "Ammi, I don't like this place."
Amina touched his shoulder, smiling tiredly. "You don't like any place. But this one… this one will be our home. Trust me."
Haris coughed, lowering himself onto the floor. "For tonight, at least, we are not in the rain. That is enough."
Zain said nothing. But deep inside, he remembered the words of the ragged old man from the mosque:
Not every roof is a blessing. Some are traps.
And as darkness swallowed House No. 13, he wondered if they had just walked into one.
End of Chapter