**AS THE TIME PASSES:
Her childhood was simple, made of dusty lanes, folded dupattas, and the glow of kerosene lamps at night. She learned Surah Ikhlas before she learned to braid her hair, and she memorized duas not because someone forced her, but because she liked how peaceful they sounded.
But the world outside was not always soft.
Relatives would come, praise her father's strength, then whisper in corners,
*"Another daughter? Allah have mercy."*
She heard every whisper, even when she pretended not to. She would hide behind the curtain, small fingers gripping the edges, wondering why being a girl made people sigh. Her mother always smiled through the shame others tried to give her, brushing her hair and saying,
*"Daughters are a mercy. One day they will know."*
Yet the girl felt something heavy settle inside her chest—a quiet sadness, like a stone wrapped in velvet.
---TOO BE CONTINUED---