The morning came slow and gray, dragging the smell of diesel and sea salt through the narrow window. Karachi was already awake — horns, vendors, the distant grind of a train passing somewhere beyond Lyari.
Aamir sat at his desk, unshaven, red-eyed, and staring at the satchel. It looked ordinary again — dull brown leather, slightly cracked at the edges, smelling faintly of dust and time. No light, no whispers. Just a bag.
He'd barely slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that mist again — the faceless figure, the city burning in the sky. He'd told himself it was stress. Or food poisoning. Or maybe a hallucination.
But the word Qaf was still there. Stitched into the flap. Perfectly real.
He'd tried Googling it. The results were a mess: Sufi poems, Persian mythology, even conspiracy forums claiming it was a "hidden mountain of jinn." None of it helped.
Now, as he gulped cheap instant coffee, he decided he needed answers.
And if Karachi had any answers to give, they usually started in Saddar.
---
By midmorning, he was walking through Empress Market, dodging scooters and hawkers, past cages of birds and piles of secondhand books. The heat had already started pressing down, thick and sticky. He carried the satchel under his arm, wrapped in an old cloth to avoid attention.
A narrow alley near the back of the market led to the old quarter — where the antique shops lived like fossils trapped in time. Here, glass cabinets held rusted sextants, ivory chess pieces, and brass telescopes that hadn't seen a sky in decades.
He stopped in front of one that looked particularly ancient: Raza's Curios & Antiquities.
The signboard hung crooked, the paint peeling. A small brass bell chimed as he pushed open the door.
Inside smelled of cedar and nostalgia. Dust motes danced in slanted light. Every shelf was a museum of forgotten stories — carved daggers, prayer beads, pocket watches, old coins.
And behind the counter sat Haji Raza, round-faced, white-bearded, spectacles balanced on his nose. He looked up, half-smiling.
"Aamir, beta. It's been months. Have you finally come to sell that illusion box of yours?"
Aamir managed a grin. "Not today, Haji sahib. I'm actually here to ask something... weird."
"Then you've come to the right place," Raza said, chuckling. "Weird is my specialty."
Aamir unwrapped the satchel and placed it gently on the counter.
Raza's expression changed instantly — amusement fading to surprise, then something else. Recognition, maybe. Or fear.
"Where did you find this?"
"It sort of... found me," Aamir said. "Someone dropped it off last night. Look, Haji sahib, you deal in old junk, right? You must've seen something like this before."
Raza didn't answer. He leaned closer, running his thumb over the stitching. When his eyes reached the word Qaf, he drew in a sharp breath.
"Inna lillahi..." he murmured. "So it begins again."
"What begins?"
Raza looked up, and for a moment, the jovial shopkeeper vanished. The man who met Aamir's gaze now was someone else entirely — older, heavier with secrets.
"Do you know the tale of the Ayyars?" he asked quietly.
Aamir shook his head. "Can't say I do."
"They were tricksters," Raza said. "Spies, illusionists, warriors. They served kings and defied demons. The greatest of them guarded the Tilism — the hidden world that touches ours through the Veil. But when the last Ayyar fell, the Tilism was sealed. Until now."
He looked back at the satchel.
"This mark—" he pointed at the word stitched into the leather "—belongs to the House of Qaf. A gate between worlds. Only those chosen by the Trickster can wield its key."
Aamir exhaled sharply. "Okay, let's slow down. You're saying this bag is a—what—key to another world?"
Raza nodded solemnly. "Or a curse, depending on who holds it."
---
Aamir stared at the satchel, half-expecting it to burst into light again.
"Let's say, for a second, I believe you," he said. "What am I supposed to do with it?"
Raza's eyes softened. "Hide it. Burn it. Throw it in the sea, if you're wise. The Tilism is not meant to be opened."
Aamir frowned. "You said the last Ayyar fell. How long ago was that?"
"Centuries," Raza said, lowering his voice. "But some bloodlines survive. Sometimes the Tilism calls to them. Through dreams. Through relics. Through things that look like tricks."
Aamir tried to laugh but couldn't. "So you think I'm one of them? An Ayyar?"
Raza smiled faintly. "You tell me, beta. How many magicians make things vanish that even the police can't find?"
That landed harder than Aamir expected.
He'd always joked that his sleight of hand was a survival tool — a way to get by, to slip through cracks unseen. But something about Raza's tone made him feel like those cracks went deeper than he knew.
The bell above the door jingled suddenly. Both men turned.
A stranger entered — tall, slim, dressed in a crisp suit that didn't belong in Saddar's dust. He wore dark sunglasses despite the dim light.
"Excuse me," he said smoothly, his accent not quite local. "I'm looking for an item that was... misplaced. A satchel. Old leather. Marked with a word you may have seen."
Aamir's pulse spiked.
Raza's face went perfectly still. "I'm afraid you're mistaken, sahib. We sell curios, not lost luggage."
The stranger smiled thinly. "Then perhaps you won't mind if I take a look around."
Raza's voice hardened. "This is a private shop."
The air felt suddenly heavy. Aamir took an instinctive step back, clutching the satchel. He didn't know who this man was, but every part of his body screamed danger.
The stranger turned slightly toward him — and Aamir swore he saw the faintest shimmer in the man's reflection on a brass mirror. Not his face — just a blur of shifting light, like something not entirely human.