Sarah had always thought her world was soft.
Her mother, Aneela, filled their home with jasmine-scented warmth,
and her father, Abrar, built their days around quiet routines-morning tea, evening walks, gentle laughter echoing through the hallway. Their home was their fortress.
At nineteen, Sarah was delicate, sheltered, and painfully sensitive.
Abrar often said she had "a heart too tender for the world.
He never imagined the world would prove him right so violently.
The night it happened, the storm D outside was louder than usual.
Sarah remembered sitting in the living room, waiting for her parents to return from their dinner. She had called Abrar twice
—no answer. She thought maybe he had forgotten his phone in the car.
But the call that came was not from him.
It was from Tariq her father'syounger brother.
His voice was tight.
Pretending to be sad, but trembling with something else-something hungry.
"There was an accident," he said.
"You need to come."
The world collapsed beneath her feet.
By midnight, the hospital confirmed the news
.Her parents-Abrar and Aneela-were gone.
Sarah's grief was so big it swallowed every sound.
Every breath.
Every thought.
Tarig stood beside her, placing a D forced hand on her shoulder as she cried.
"We'll take care of you," he said.
But even then... something in his tone felt wrong.