December 20, 2027Faisalabad, Pakistan — 5:00 PM
The sky was soft — almost too soft for a city like this.
Clouds floated like whispers, neither light nor heavy. And on the fourth floor of a modest middle-class apartment, Aqeel Javed sat hunched near a coffee-stained desk, tangled in cables, open soda cans, and an overheating laptop screen flashing lines of half-written code.
"Hey, bro. Window. That light is hitting perfect. Pose!"
Aqeel looked up. Sohaib grinned from behind a smartphone camera, standing with one foot on the arm of the sofa, his hair wild, his hoodie draped like a cloak. The room was filled with scattered laughter and unfinished jokes. Yousaf was on the floor, controller in hand, yelling about a missed combo in Tekken. The air smelled like old chips, open cola, and a late winter that had no intention of snowing.
Somewhere in the background, an emotional song played on loop — the kind people only notice when the world goes quiet.
Aqeel pushed his chair back slowly and stood. His shirt was wrinkled, the sleeves a little too long, his black hair slightly unbrushed from an afternoon nap.
He walked to the window.
Outside — the city stretched far. Buildings, clouds, trees. Boring, familiar. Cars honked in the distance. The horizon was wide open.
He placed a hand on the window grill.
"Okay, now turn a little. Half-smile. Like you've actually got emotions or something." Sohaib laughed, raising the camera.
Yousaf snorted. "Yeah, bro, try not to look like a serial killer for once."
Aqeel smirked. Just a little. He wasn't the smiling type. But something about this moment made his chest tighten. Something... familiar.
His hand tightened around the grill.He looked outside.
And froze.
The Split
At first, it was just a blur — a flicker in the air. The sky should have stayed soft.
But in an instant, it divided.
Left side — sunlight. Golden. Warm. Blinding.
Right side — darkness. Stars. Cold. Hollow.
Not a sunset. Not a trick of the eye.
It was like the world had been cut in half.
The horizon — a clean division.One half of the sky shone like morning.The other half whispered like midnight.
"Yo... what the hell is that?" Sohaib lowered his phone. His voice cracked.
Aqeel didn't answer.He couldn't.
His lips were slightly open.His chest felt… empty.
Sohaib blinked. Took a step back.
And vanished.
Not slowly.Not magically.He was just — gone.
The phone dropped.Clattered.Bounced twice and slid under the sofa.
Aqeel didn't move.
He couldn't even turn his head.
Yousaf?Gone.Everyone. Gone.
No scream. No sound.No fire. No rapture.Just… absence.
Aqeel blinked. Once.
Then again.
The room wasn't empty.
But he was.
His heart wasn't beating right. His skin felt like it didn't belong to him.
He turned his eyes back toward the sky.
Judgement
Outside, the world was folding into itself.
The buildings in the distance looked like they were melting. The colors bled — brick red into smoky gray, concrete bending into ash. Shadows lengthened unnaturally, reaching across the streets like fingers trying to pull everything back.
There were no people.Only animals.
Cats walked in silence.Dogs sat still, staring upward.Birds froze mid-flight, as if stitched to the sky.
Not one sound.
Only the crackling of the sky tearing like ancient cloth.
Aqeel's legs moved — stiff, unsure. He walked to the center of the room, eyes wide. He touched his chest, trying to feel something.
His own heartbeat.
His own breath.
Anything.
There was nothing.
Just the sound of air — and the weight of an ending.
Pain Without Words
And then it hit.
Like thunder from inside his skull.Like his blood was lava.Like his lungs were drowning — not in water, but in regret.
Memories — thousands of them — hit at once.
Laughter with friends.Touching a hand he shouldn't have touched.Screaming at his mother.Saying "I hate you."Stealing.Hiding.Pretending to be a better person than he was.
Faces flashed. Voices. Streets. Rooms. Tiny lights from mobile screens. Nightmares he never told anyone. And one sentence, one that echoed louder than all the others:
"You are not the person you pretend to be."
His knees gave out.
He didn't fall.He collapsed.
A Whisper
Then…
A voice.
Not in the air.
Not outside.
Inside him.Inside his veins.Inside his chest.Inside the hollow space where his soul used to be.
It wasn't loud.
It didn't have a language.
But he understood.
"Your time is over."
It didn't say his name.It didn't need to.
He knew the voice.
It had spoken to him before. In dreams, maybe. Or when he used to stare at ceilings as a child, crying quietly into a pillow he didn't know how to explain.
Aqeel tried to speak.
Nothing came out.
His lips trembled.
No tears fell.His body forgot how.
He wanted to run — but his legs had no will.He wanted to scream — but the world had no echo.
So instead, he just stood there, silently burning.
A Ghost of the Past
The room began to change.
Not in shape. But in feeling.
The lights flickered. The temperature shifted. It smelled like…
Memory.
He saw himself.A boy.Maybe 8 years old.Sitting alone.Looking at his right hand like it didn't belong to him.
He saw his cousin — Mustafa — saying something sharp, unforgivable.
He saw the mosque steps where he once let someone get beaten — because of him.
He saw his sister-in-law, smiling gently. Holding her stomach.
"Look at this baby, Aqeel. Isn't she beautiful?"
She was gone.
He had said nothing.
He had prayed nothing.
He had just watched her get buried and said:
"It doesn't matter. People die."
Liar.
The End of the Beginning
His body jolted.
Something inside him cracked.
A window broke.Not physically. Spiritually.
The world around him kept tearing, kept folding.
And then, for a brief second…
He saw something not human.
His own face — but not his face.
A mirror — not of skin, but of soul.
Eyes too ancient.
Silence too loud.
A presence too large to fit inside this boy's body.
And then—
Silence.
All motion paused.All light vanished.The city blinked.
And then… a baby cried.
"The First Breath"
Silence.
No wind.No collapse.No present.
Only the echo of a baby's first cry — far away, distant, tucked in the folds of time.
It was July 21st, 2007, and in the narrow lanes of Faisalabad's older neighborhoods, a small home stood hidden between rows of cracked brick walls and rust-colored rooftops. Inside, there was nothing grand — no tiled floors, no decorations, no polished furniture. Just life in its barest form.
A single bed stood in the center of the room. Its iron frame squeaked slightly as movement shook the mattress.
A woman screamed.
Not in fear — in labor. Her hands gripped the worn edges of a sheet. Her body trembled. Beads of sweat ran down her forehead, trailing down to her cheek where a tear had already dried.
Her name was Abida.She was about to give birth to her third child.
In the corner of the room, an old cloth-sewing machine stood silent — forgotten for the moment. On a nearby table, a small TV played softly, its screen dim. And beside Abida sat her best friend, a towel draped over her shoulder, whispering calming words that barely reached her ears.
The air smelled of dust and warm metal.The only light came from a flickering ceiling fan bulb, spinning like it was trying to remember why it still worked.
"Push… just a little more. You're almost there."
The nannies — two women from nearby homes — moved quickly but gently, their voices low, professional, almost sacred in rhythm.
Abida clenched her teeth, then let out another cry that twisted into a breathless gasp. Her legs went still. Her hands loosened. Her back arched and then dropped flat.
And then—
A sound.
A baby's cry.
Sharp. Pure.A crack through silence.A signal to the universe:
Aqeel Javed had arrived.
The Weakness of a Mother
He was crying. That was good.
His arms flailed, his face scrunched, his skin was damp and red and real.
The room exhaled with relief. The women smiled.
But Abida didn't smile.
Her eyes rolled slightly back. Her body had stopped shaking — and that wasn't good. Her lips were pale. Her breathing was shallow.
"Something's wrong," one of the nannies whispered.
"She's bleeding too much," said another, already wrapping a shawl around the child.
They moved quickly. The child was left in safe hands — wrapped in soft white cloth, cleaned and calmed.
Abida didn't speak. Her eyes were open, but fading.
Within minutes, a small car had arrived at the door — an uncle from down the street. She was carried out with care and panic. The neighbors stood still, watching, whispering.
Aqeel stayed behind.A newborn in a cloth cradle.Alone in a room that had just tried to kill his mother.
The Father in the Other Room
Javed was sitting on the edge of the bed in the adjacent room, listening.
His legs were shaking slightly. He didn't move toward the door. He didn't call out. He simply listened — ears tuned not to the screams, but to the cry that followed.
When he heard it, a smile broke through his face like sunlight through clouds.
He closed his eyes.
"Son," he whispered.And then again, more quietly, like he was teaching the word to himself:
"My son."
The First Room
Aqeel doesn't remember this room.
But if he did — if some distant part of his divine soul kept record — it would remember:
The way the bricks looked, raw and unfinished.
The threadbare curtain dancing slightly from the fan.
The quiet hum of the sewing machine, still warm from morning use.
And the shadow of his father's feet outside the door, hesitating… just for a moment.
A Flicker in the Soul
They say newborns don't see the world — not really. They sense it. Shapes. Warmth. Smell.
But when Aqeel opened his eyes for the first time, something was different.
Not visible to the human eye.
But deep inside, something shifted.
A vibration.A flicker.A divine particle remembering its past — and instantly forgetting.
Because this was the deal.This was the promise.
To be born again as nothing.To live this life as one of them.
To feel what they feel.To fall like they fall.To forget everything — and then maybe, just maybe, remember.
The Man Named Tariq
Two days later, the door opened again.
Not for Javed.Not for a family celebration.But for Tariq.
A quiet man with kind eyes and a tired face. He stood at the door for a moment, his hands behind his back, unsure if he should enter. The child was sleeping. Abida was still in the hospital, recovering.
He stepped inside.
He didn't say much. Just sat beside the baby.
Stared at the tiny bundle of cloth on the pillow.
"You don't know me yet," he whispered, "but your father asked me to look after you."
He looked around the room — the cracked ceiling, the worn floor, the little cup of milk still half-full.
"I'll try."
His voice didn't tremble. He wasn't dramatic. But his presence filled the room like a quiet promise.
Quiet Days Follow
The baby grew in silence.
Abida returned a week later, thinner than before, but alive.
Javed passed away not long after. The details were never told to the child. He had been sick for months. The family called it a "disease," but never named it.
He died while Aqeel was still too young to speak.But he heard the crying.He heard the doors shutting.He heard his mother's voice drop into silence.
And somewhere deep in the memory that no child keeps — he heard the world go cold.
Shadows in the Cradle
Sometimes, he cried at night for no reason.
No milk. No cold. No sickness.
Just endless tears, and a gaze fixed at something no one else could see.
People said it was nothing. Babies are like that.
But his mother sometimes stared at him too long.
She once said to her best friend:
"He looks like he knows something. Like he's judging me already."
And her best friend only smiled.
One Moment
In the months that followed, a moment came.
Late one evening, Tariq entered the room and picked up Aqeel, holding him against his chest. The house was silent. A fan turned slowly. The sky outside was dark.
And just for a second, as Tariq held the boy and whispered stories about nothing — about cars, roads, winter, and hospitals — Aqeel opened his eyes.
And for a flicker of time — just long enough for the world to forget — his eyes glowed gold.
Only once.
Then never again.
Fade
The room dims.
The world slows.
And the baby sleeps.
His breath soft.His body warm.His soul forgotten, but not gone.
Far beyond his skin, beyond the four walls, beyond the cries and the death and the sickness — something ancient waits.
Not to interfere.Not to rescue.
But to watch.
"Dreams in a Room Too Small"
Aqeel was three years old when the whispers began.
They weren't voices exactly. Not like how his mother called him from the other room, or how his older brothers argued loudly over the remote. These were quieter. Slower. Ancient.
He never understood the words. He never told anyone.
But sometimes, while playing on the floor with a broken plastic truck, he'd stop and turn his head. Like someone had just said his name from inside the walls.
"Aqeel."
The sound wasn't frightening. If anything, it felt… familiar. Like a hug from someone he didn't remember meeting.
The House Grows Smaller
The house hadn't changed much. Still the same dull brick walls, still the soft ticking of the old wall clock, still the musty scent of dry clothes and detergent. But Aqeel had changed.
He started staring at corners for long periods. He asked questions his mother couldn't answer.
"Why do people lie, Mama, even when they smile?"
"Do dreams know we're dreaming them?"
His mother would brush his hair and tell him to go play. Sometimes she cried at night, thinking he couldn't hear.
He heard. He always heard.
The First Friend
At four, Aqeel made his first friend.
A boy who lived next door — loud, funny, and full of ideas about rockets and cricket. They played in the narrow alley behind their homes, making games out of plastic bottles and imaginary monsters.
But sometimes, mid-laugh, Aqeel would pause. Look up at the sky.
"What if we're not real?" he once asked.
The boy threw a stone at a can and laughed. "You think too much. Come on, we're building a spaceship today."
Aqeel smiled, but his eyes didn't.
The Dreams Begin
They were never clear. Just fragments.
A desert with no end.
A wall of fire that didn't burn.
A language he knew but couldn't speak.
He'd wake up sweating, but calm. His mother thought he had a fever. She took him to a doctor who said he was perfectly healthy.
But she knew better. Mothers always do.
One night she asked:
"Do you see something when you close your eyes?"
Aqeel, only five, simply nodded.
Something Inside
He was a strange child.
Too quiet to be noticed. Too sharp to be ignored.
He loved helping others, but only from a distance. He once gave his cousin his favorite pencil, then cried alone for two hours about it.
His emotions were always two people fighting.
One voice said: "Be kind." The other whispered: "Burn it all."
He never knew which one was winning.
The Weight of Rooms
By now, he knew every corner of the house. The way the wooden door creaked at night. The ticking rhythm of the clock before the call to prayer. The soft humming sound the walls made in the afternoon heat.
But sometimes, it all felt wrong.
The room felt too small. His thoughts felt too big.
He didn't know it yet, but it wasn't just the room. It was the world itself, and he was already outgrowing it.
The First Shadow
One day, while sitting alone, drawing random shapes with chalk, he saw it.
A figure. Standing in the doorway.
Not moving. Not real. But there.
Aqeel blinked, and it was gone.
He didn't tell anyone. Not because he was scared. But because a part of him already understood:
This would keep happening.
Unspoken Things
His mother once found a page he had scribbled on. It was full of circles, stars, a line splitting the paper in half. She asked him what it meant.
He said nothing.
But inside, something said:
"You remember what hasn't happened yet."
And that made no sense.
Not to a five-year-old.
Not to anyone.
"The Child Who Knew Too Much"
Aqeel was six years old when his thoughts stopped being safe.
He had learned to smile when someone gave him candy. Learned to say thank you. Learned to say sorry, even when he didn't mean it. He was good at being polite. Good at being a child.
But inside?
Inside, he was cracking.
Questions That Shouldn't Exist
He began asking things no child should ask.
"Mama, what happens if the soul wants to leave but the body keeps breathing?"
"If I think something bad, but don't do it, am I still a bad person?"
"Is it wrong if I imagine people dying? Even if I don't want it to happen?"
His mother scolded him once, sharply. She told him never to speak like that again. She said those thoughts were haram, dangerous, and from the devil.
Aqeel nodded. But the thoughts didn't stop.
If anything, they grew louder.
The Right Ear
It started small.
One day he noticed he wasn't hearing properly when someone called from the right side. At first, he thought they were whispering. Then he thought they were joking.
Then, he realized something was wrong.
Deaf. From the right ear. Without reason.
His mother cried again. She thought it was a punishment for letting him watch too much TV. Doctors gave medicines. Nothing helped.
But Aqeel's response?
He didn't care.
Somehow, the silence in that ear felt… right.
As if the world had finally stopped yelling.
The Glasses
Then, not long after, the blurriness began.
Words on the whiteboard disappeared. Faces became shadows. Even the moon looked like a blur of light through a fogged window.
Another hospital visit.
Glasses.
He didn't complain. In fact, when he first wore them and looked in the mirror, he stared at himself for a long time.
It was the first time he truly saw his own eyes.
And something about them terrified him.
The Cousin
The conflict was slow, but it built like thunder behind a mountain.
His cousin. The one closest in age. The one everyone thought he was friends with.
They laughed. Played games. Shared food.
But something between them was broken.
Aqeel didn't know how it started. Maybe a misunderstanding. Maybe jealousy. Maybe fate.
One day, after a prayer at the mosque, a group of boys — older, stronger — followed his cousin. And Aqeel watched as his cousin got beaten.
He didn't move. He didn't help.
In fact, some part of him had whispered:
"He deserves this."
Later that night, his cousin's eyes burned into his dreams. Not with pain. With betrayal.
Aqeel cried for hours. But quietly. Always quietly.
The Sin and the Mirror
Weeks later, Aqeel walked into the bathroom. Looked into the mirror.
He didn't see a child. He saw something else.
A weight behind his eyes. A scream beneath his skin.
He whispered to himself:
"Why am I like this?"
And the voice inside — the darker one — replied:
"Because you always were."
He punched the mirror. It didn't break. But his hand hurt for days.
No one noticed. No one ever noticed.
A Growing Silence
His days became quieter. Not from peace. From exhaustion.
He began speaking less. Laughing less. Helping less. He grew distant from even his mother.
She blamed school. She blamed the TV. She blamed his hearing.
But never once did she ask him:
"Are you okay?"
He wasn't. Not even close.
Final Note: End of Chapter 1
By the age of seven, Aqeel was a boy with a deaf ear, blurred eyes, two voices in his head, and a growing list of regrets he couldn't understand.
And still… no one knew.
He smiled when asked. He ate when told. He lived like every other child.
But inside?
The Messenger was still sleeping. And the world had no idea it had already begun to collapse.
End of Chapter 1
Author Time :
What would you do if you heard the voice?
Do you think Aqeel deserves redemption?