Smile On face, You never require the Medicine...😁

Andheron se nikal kar, ek naya rasta banaya hai, Hum ne dunya ki nazron se, apna ishq chupaya hai.

Woh jo cellar ki deewaron mein, ek waada hua tha, Usi ek pal ki khatir, hum ne khud ko mitaya hai.

Chambeli ki mehek mein, teri saanson ka basera hai, Mere veeran se aangan mein, ab tera hi savera hai.

Zamaane ki baghaawat ko, hum ne seene se lagaya, Wafadaari ke badle, hum ne tujh ko kamaya hai.

Woh zakhm jo gehre thay, ab woh nishaan ban gaye, Hum dono ek doosre ki, pehchan ban gaye.

Koi puche toh keh dena, woh kissa purana hai, Na shikwa hai na gham koi, na maut ka darr hai.

Bas teri bahon mein hi, meri zindagi ka safar hai....

​The ceremony was not held with any witnesses, nor was it celebrated with the thunderous joy of a thousand relatives. It took place in the dead of a moonless night, three months after the world believed the "Viper" had been buried in a shallow, nameless grave. The mansion, a fortress of limestone and iron, stood as the only witness.

​The nikkah was a hushed affair of shadows and gold. There were no guests. There was only an elderly, blind cleric Iqbal had smuggled into the grounds—a man who asked no questions and saw no faces—and the two of them. Iqbal stood in a simple black sherwani, his spine rigid, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. Beside him, she wore a veil of deep emerald silk, the color of the garden she had once dreamed of.

​When the cleric asked for her consent, your voice didn't tremble. It was a clear, sharp bell in the silence.

​"Qubool hai."

​Iqbal’s response was a low, jagged rumble that seemed to shake the very foundations of the house. "Qubool hai."

​As the papers were signed in the flickering candlelight, Iqbal felt the finality of it. He had officially signed away his soul to the woman the state called a ghost. He took youd hand—the skin now soft, the callouses of her training beginning to fade—and slipped a ring onto your finger. It wasn't a diamond; it was an antique band of heavy silver, engraved with jasmine vines.

​He didn't kiss you then. He simply brought your hand to his forehead and closed his eyes. It was a silent promise: I have built a world for you within these walls. No one will ever take you again..

​

​The first year was a slow, agonizing thaw. The "Viper" did not disappear overnight. For months, you walked the halls of the mansion like a caged panther, eyes darting to every corner, your body tensing at the sound of a closing door.

​But then came the spring.

​Iqbal watched from his study window as you reclaimed the neglected courtyard. He had spent a fortune importing soil, rare seeds, and mature saplings. He watched you kneel in the dirt, your hands—once stained with the grease of a disassembled rifle—now caked in rich, dark earth.

​You began with the jasmine. You planted it under their bedroom window so that the scent would haunt your sleep, but this time, it was the scent of life, not the stagnant air of a cellar. Then came the white roses, the herbs, and the thick, lush vines that climbed the limestone walls, turning the fortress into a sanctuary.

​One evening, he found ypu sitting in the center of the bloom, the setting sun painting your skin in hues of honey and bronze. You looked up at him, and for the first time, the "Viper" was gone. There was only a woman who had finally found the sun.

​"It’s green, Iqbal," you whispered, gesturing to the budding roses. "It’s finally green..!"

​He sat beside you, heedless of his expensive trousers getting ruined by the mud. He pulled you into his lap, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "I told you I’d find you here.." he murmured. "Even if I had to build the garden myself."

​

​It was a Tuesday, a mundane morning they had once only dreamed of. Iqbal was preparing to leave for the Directorate, his uniform crisp and suffocating, when he found you standing by the window, your hand resting flat against your stomach.

​You didn't have to say a word. The way you looked at him—the mixture of terror and a fierce, primal joy—told him everything.

​Iqbal dropped his briefcase. The senior strategist, the man who moved the pieces of nations, felt his knees go weak. He walked toward you, his breath hitching, and placed his large, scarred hand over your own.

​"Sure...?" he started, his voice failing him.

​You simply nodded with a wide smile.

​He didn't go to work that day. He called in a "family emergency," the first time he had ever used the word family without it being a lie. They spent the day in the garden, speaking in hushed tones about the impossible. They were two ghosts, creating a heartbeat. It was the ultimate act of treason, and they reveled in it.

​The months that followed were a domestic battleground, a war fought over baby names and the color of nursery curtains.

​"He will be a Scholar" Iqbal declared one night as they lay in bed, his hand feeling the rhythmic thud of a tiny kick against his palm. "I’ll buy him every book in the city. He won't know the weight of a weapon."

​"And if it’s a girl?" You teased, your head resting on his chest. "She’ll be a gardener. Or a poet. Or perhaps she’ll be just like her father—stubborn, arrogant..~"

​"No," Iqbal said, his voice turning serious. "She will be free. That is the only thing that matters."

​They spent hours arguing over names. You wanted something soft, something that sounded like the wind through the trees. He wanted something strong, a name that could stand as a bulwark against the world they were hiding from.

​The birth was a long, harrowing night that aged Iqbal a decade in ten hours. He paced the hallway outside their room, the sound of your muffled cries tearing through him more effectively than any interrogation ever had. He felt helpless—a man who could orchestrate a coup but couldn't ease the pain of the woman he loved.

​When the midwife finally opened the door, her face tired but smiling, Iqbal pushed past her before she could even speak.

​The room smelled of rose water and sweat. You were propped up on the pillows, face pale and exhausted, but in your arms was a bundle of white linen.

​Iqbal approached the bed as if he were walking on glass. He sat on the edge, his breath catching as he looked down at the tiny, wrinkled face of his son. The boy had a shock of dark hair and, when he opened his eyes for a fleeting second, a gaze so intense it made Iqbal’s heart stutter.

​"Abbas.." she whispered, her voice a tired melody. It was the name he had picked if they would welcome a boy.

​Iqbal reached out, his finger disappearing into the tiny, fierce grip of the infant's hand. He felt a surge of protectiveness so violent it nearly choked him. This wasn't just a child; it was the physical manifestation of their survival. It was the "someday" they had laughed about in the dark.

​He leaned down, kissing your forehead, then leaning further to press his lips against the soft, downy head of his son..

​Years bled into one another, marked only by the height of the rose bushes and the growing height of the boy.

​Abbas was a child of the sun and the soil. He ran through the corridors of the mansion, his laughter filling the vaulted ceilings that had once only known silence. He was a boy who thought the entire world was a walled garden and a mother who smelled of jasmine.

​Iqbal continued his work at the ISI, rising through the ranks, becoming a shadow among shadows. He was the perfect soldier, the man who never failed, the man with no weaknesses. But every evening, when the sun dipped below the horizon, he would drive through the iron gates and leave the Major behind.

​He had no regrets. Not for the lies he told his commanders, not for the blood he had spilled to keep his secret, and certainly not for the treason he committed every time he looked at his wife.

​They had stolen a life from the jaws of a war, and they were spending it one quiet, domestic day at a time.

​As Iqbal climbed the stairs that evening, the sound of his boxing training still humming in his muscles, he thought of the "Viper" and the "Major" they used to be. They were dead, buried in a cellar ten years ago.

​He pushed open the door to their room, watching as you tucked Abbas into bed. The boy was fast asleep, his hand curled into a fist. You looked up as Iqbal entered,your eyes soft.

​He didn't need a medal. He didn't need a homeland. He had the garden, he had the lion, and he had the ruin he called home.

​"Are you coming to bed?" you asked softly.

​Iqbal nodded. "Always," he said. "Always."

The sky over your home had turned a bruised, violent charcoal, and the heat that had hung over the garden all day finally broke with a crack of thunder that shook the mansion to its very foundations.

Inside the master suite, the air was cool, scented with the rain-dampened jasmine wafting through the cracked window. You layed in the center of the vast bed, tucked into the crook of Iqbal’s arm, listening to the rhythmic drum of the downpour against the limestone.

​Iqbal was half-asleep, his breathing deep and steady, his large hand resting protectively over your hip. But then, a flash of lightning illuminated the room, followed by a boom so loud it rattled the glass in the frames.

​A few moments later, the heavy oak door creaked open.

​A small silhouette stood in the doorway, clutching a stuffed animal. Abbas, only seven years old but already carrying himself with a shadow of his father’s stoicism, didn't cry out. He simply padded across the cold marble floor on bare feet, his breath coming in short, jagged hitches.

​"Baba? Ammi?" he whispered, his voice small against the roar of the wind.

​Iqbal was awake instantly. The soldier in him never truly slept; his eyes snapped open, sharp and alert, but they softened the moment they landed on the trembling boy. He shifted, lifting the heavy duvet like a wing.

​"Come here" Iqbal murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seemed to provide more security than the stone walls ever could.

​Abbas scrambled into the bed, wedging himself right into the center of the two of you. He crawled into his father’s protective arms, burying his face in Iqbal’s chest, while his legs tangled with your own. You moved closer, wrapping your arm over the boy, pulling him into your softness. The contrast was stark: Iqbal was the mountain, hard and unyielding, a barrier against the storm; you were the garden, warm and fragrant, the peace that waited after the war.

​"The thunder is loud.." Abbas whispered into Iqbal’s skin.

​"It is only the sky finding its voice, Abbas," Iqbal said, his hand stroking the back of the boy’s head, his fingers gentle despite the scars on his knuckles. "It has nothing to say that can hurt you."

​Abbas shifted, looking up at you with wide, dark eyes—eyes that had seen only love, never the horrors that had birthed his existence. "Tell me a story? A real one? Not from the books."

​You looked at Iqbal over the boy’s head. A secret passed between you—a silent communication practiced over a decade.

​"Once.." you began, your voice a silken thread in the dark, "there was a beautiful garden that was hidden behind a very high, very cold wall. In that garden lived a woman who had forgotten how to speak to anyone but the flowers. She thought the wall was there to keep her safe, but really, it was there to keep her lonely."

​Abbas listened, his breathing beginning to slow as he felt the vibration of your voice.

​"On the other side of the wall.." Iqbal picked up, his voice deep and resonant, "was a soldier. He was a man of iron and shadows. He had spent his whole life fighting wars for a king who didn't know his name. He thought his heart was a stone, and he was proud of it. He believed that feeling nothing was his greatest strength."

​"Did he have a sword?" Abbas asked sleepily

​"He had many, way too many" Iqbal replied, his grip on the boy tightening almost imperceptibly. "But his strongest weapon was his silence. One day, the king sent the soldier to the garden. Not to protect it, but to find a secret hidden there. The soldier climbed the wall, expecting to find an enemy. He expected a fight.."

​You smiled, your fingers tracing the velvet of Abbas’s ear. "But when he dropped down into the grass, he didn't find a monster. He found the woman. She was holding a single white rose, and she wasn't afraid of his armor or his shadows."

​"What did she do?" Abbas murmured, his eyelids fluttering.

​"She kicked his butt for trying to ruin her garden.." you chuckled whispered. "And for the first time in his life, the soldier realized that the World wasn't always what he thought it was..the more time they spend together, the more they liked each other...and one day, she gave him one of her Roses. You see Abbas, that rose was more, much more powerful than the sword. But there were people outside the wall who didn't want the soldier and the woman to be together. They wanted the garden to stay hidden, and they wanted the soldier to stay made of iron.."

​Iqbal leaned his head back against the pillows, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, though his mind was clearly in that cellar ten years ago. "The shadows grew very dark, Abbas. The storm outside the wall was much louder than the one you hear tonight. The soldier was told he had to destroy the garden. He was told that if he didn't, he would lose everything he had ever worked for."

​Abbas tensed, his small hand gripping Iqbal’s forearm. "Did he do it? Did he break the garden?- Ammi would kick your butt if you ruined her Garden..!"

​"No.." Iqbal said, laughing at his sons blunt respond before his voice dropped to a whisper that felt like a prayer. "He chose to become a traitor. He chose to break his own iron instead of the rose. He made a deal with the shadows—a secret bargain that only a man who loves someone more than his own life can make. He led the woman out of the garden through a hidden gate, and he told the world she was gone. He walked back into the sun alone, carrying the secret in his heart like a buried treasure."

​"Where did she go..?" Abbas asked, his voice barely audible now.

​"She went to a new garden." you said, kissing the top of the boy’s head. "A garden where the walls were thick enough to keep the world out, but the gates were always open for the man of iron. He would come to her every night, leaving the war at the door. And because they were brave enough to be traitors for love, the stars gave them a gift.."

​The storm outside seemed to settle, the thunder moving further away until it was just a low rumble in the distance. The rhythmic sound of the rain became a lullaby. Abbas’s body went limp between you, his breathing turning into the heavy, rhythmic cadence of deep sleep. He was safe. He was loved. He was the miracle neither of you had been promised.

​You stayed like that for a long time, the three of you joined in the center of the bed. Iqbal didn't pull away. He shifted slightly so he could look at you, his eyes reflecting the faint moonlight that had begun to peek through the clouds.

​"A traitor.." you whispered, a playful, heartbreaking tilt to your lips.

​"The best decision I ever made." he replied.

​He leaned across the sleeping boy, his lips finding yours in a kiss that tasted of ten years of survival and a lifetime of secrets. In the quiet of the mansion, surrounded by the scent of jasmine and the warmth of your son, the Major and the Viper were finally at rest.

The years let Abbas grow curious, the story of the Wall and Garden behind it, he never forgot it. While standing next to his beautiful mother, waiting while she prepared his favorite dishes, he noticed scars and faded white lines across her arms, hands and knuckles.

He had noticed his Father had just as many, maybe more similar wounds, but one was especially catching his attention.

His ear.

It was ripped in half, right below the rip- there was a scar that showed a pair of teeth..human teeth. Whenever young Abbas asked his Father, he had to smirk, not denying him an answer either.

,,It was a Viper"

He would tell him, every time, even when Abbas told him a Snake does not have human Teeth.

Fifteen was the year the lion began to hunt for the truth.

Abbas had grown tall, possessing your lean, lethal grace and Iqbal’s broad shoulders. He had found the hidden door in the library—the one that led to the safe where Iqbal kept his old service medals and a single, tattered emerald veil, as well as old documents and a torn picture of you...younger.. sharper- in the uniform of the indian Military.

​The confrontation happened in the garden, under the heavy scent of the midnight jasmine.

​"You were a Major..i know that much.." Abbas said, standing in the shadows, his voice cracking with the onset of manhood. "But Ammi... There are no records of her before I was born..No birth certificate.. No family..her family name before she married you- it doesn't exist..its all made up"

​Iqbal stood by the rose bushes, his back to his son. He looked older now, the weight of the ISI's secrets beginning to bow his shoulders, though his presence was still as commanding as a thundercloud. He turned slowly, his gaze pinning Abbas to the spot.

​"Records are for people who want to be found Beta, and names are for those that hide behind them." Iqbal said.

​"You committed treason.." Abbas whispered, the realization hitting him with the force of a physical blow. " I found the The picture..and documents. Her name was never Zaidi, her last name was Kaur..She comes from India, not Lahore..! The story... it wasn't a fairy tale. You saved her. You lied to the whole country..-"

​You stepped out from the shadows of the veranda, your hand resting on the hilt of the small shears you used for the roses. "We committed treason for the right to exist, Abbas..In a world of black and white, we chose to live in the green. If you think less of your father for his choice, then you do not understand the value of the air you breathe..you would not exist if we wouldn't have killed this Woman from India long ago..in a cell somewhere in Karachi, long forgotten by her nation."

​Abbas looked at the two of you—the legendary Major and the ghost of the Viper—and he didn't see criminals. He saw a love so terrifyingly vast it had rewritten history. He didn't speak of it again, but that night, he began to train with Iqbal in the gym, hitting the bag until his knuckles bled, learning the discipline of a man who lives with a secret.

At eighteen, Abbas was a masterpiece of his father’s making and your tempering. He was brilliant, a scholar as Iqbal had dreamed, but he had the soul of a protector. He understood the "Zahreeli" nickname now—he knew his mother was the poison that had cured his father’s heart, and once tore his ear off.

​Iqbal had stepped back from the ISI, officially "retired," though the black phones in his study still rang occasionally. He spent his days in the garden with you, his hand almost always resting on yours. At sixty-four, his strength wasn't failing him, but he decided to rest.

Abbas was a man of quiet, dangerous competence. He was at university, studying law—a scholar’s path—but he moved through the world with the silent, watchful eye of a predator. He was the perfect hybrid of his parents: the honor of the Major and the lethal instinct of the Viper.

You walked over, your hair now shot through with silver, but your face still possessed that haunting, toxic beauty that had once undone a Major. You sat on the arm of Iqbal’s chair, your hand sliding into his.

​"Happy birthday my love" you said to Abbas.

​Abbas turned, looking at the two of you. He saw the way Iqbal looked at you—with a "worship that was more violent than any war." He saw the way you leaned into him, the "ruin you called home." He realized then that his life wasn't a secret to be ashamed of; it was a victory. Every breath he took was a middle finger to the Directorate, a triumph of human spirit over mechanical duty.

​The storm clouds began to gather over the hills again, just like the night he had crawled into their bed years ago. But this time, Abbas didn't feel the need to hide. He stood up, his frame silhouetted against the coming rain, a sentinel for the people who had given up everything for him.

​"Let the rain come," Abbas murmured, a ghost of his mother’s smirk touching his lips. "The garden needs it."

​Iqbal closed his eyes, his head leaning back against your shoulder. He had no regrets. He had been a traitor, a liar, and a ghost. But as he listened to the heartbeat of his son and felt the warmth of his wife’s hand, he knew he was the only man in his division who had truly won.

​The Major had followed his ruin home, and he had found that the ruin was, in fact, a palace.

The garden had long since outgrown the limestone walls, a sprawling, emerald kingdom of jasmine and ancient white roses that shielded the mansion from a world that had forgotten the names Major Iqbal and the Viper. At seventy-one, Iqbal moved with a slower, more deliberate gait, his once-black hair now mostly grey. But his eyes—those dark, unblinking pits—still held the same lethal focus whenever they landed on you.

​You were fifty-five now, your beauty having transitioned from the sharp, toxic edge of a blade to the deep, resonant glow of an antique jewel.

Abbas was twenty-five, a man who carried the weight of his father’s honor and your quiet ferocity. He had married Aisha, a girl with laughter like a mountain stream and a heart brave enough to inhabit a house built on secrets. They lived in the east wing, their lives an extension of the miracle that had begun in a cellar.

​But it was the grandchildren who truly ruled the mansion now.

​Naima, the eldest at 5, had her father’s stubborn jaw. Nizam, 3, possessed Iqbal’s brooding intensity and temper And then there was little Noor, barely two, who moved through the garden with a silent, predatory grace that made Iqbal’s heart skip a beat every time he saw it.

​"She has your eyes.." Iqbal murmured one afternoon, sitting in his favorite mahogany chair on the veranda. He watched Noor disappear behind a thicket of jasmine, stalking a butterfly with a focus that was far too familiar.

​You sat on the steps near his feet, your hands resting on his knee. "She has your patience, Jaan..She’ll wait forever to get what she wants.."

​Iqbal let out a soft, huffed laugh, his hand moving to cover yours. His skin was thinner now, the veins like blue rivers, but his grip was still firm—the grip of a man who had spent twenty-seven years refusing to let go of his ruin.

For nearly three decades, you had lived as a ghost. There were no public records of your existence, no photographs in the newspapers, no digital footprint.

​"Do you ever miss it?" Iqbal asked suddenly. The air was thick with the scent of rain, the sky turning that bruised indigo you both loved. "The thrill? The hunt? The life where you didn't have to hide?"

​You turned to look at him, your thumb tracing the wedding band on his finger—the silver jasmine vine, now worn smooth by time. "I was never alive out there, Iqbal. I was a weapon being pointed by people who didn't care if I broke. I didn't start living until you 'killed' me."

​Iqbal leaned his head back, his eyes closing. He thought of the medals he had stored in the cellar, the ones he never looked at. He thought of Major General Bade, long dead now, who had gone to his grave believing he had won.

Dinner was a chaotic, beautiful affair. Abbas and Aisha brought the children to the main dining room.

​Naima was telling a story about a bird she had found, her small hands moving emphatically. Nizam was trying to mimic his grandfather’s stoic expression, sitting up straight and refusing to eat his greens until Iqbal gave him a knowing nod.

​"Baba.." Abbas said, looking at his father with a reverence that hadn't dimmed with age. "The Ministry is asking for a consult on the northern borders. They keep sending messengers to the gate."

​Iqbal didn't even look up from his plate. "Tell them the Major is dead, Abbas. Tell them he died a long time ago in a cellar, and all that’s left is an old man who likes his roses."

​Abbas smiled, a flash of your smirk appearing on his face. "I told them that yesterday. They didn't believe me."

​"Then tell them again!" you said, your voice holding that quiet, "Zahreeli" bite that still made Abbas sit up a little straighter. "This house doesn't belong to the Ministry. It belongs to us."

​After the children were tucked in—after Naima had been promised a story and Nizam had been reassured that the shadows in the corner were just folded clothes —the house fell into that deep, respectful silence it only achieved at night.

​You and Iqbal walked through the garden one last time before bed. The moon was high, casting a silver sheen over the white roses. Iqbal walked with a cane now, but he still insisted on offering you his arm.

​"We did it.." he said, his voice barely a breath. "We stole a whole lifetime, meri jaan."

​"We didn't steal it," you countered, leaning your head against his shoulder. "We earned it. Every scratch, every bite, every lie... it was all for this."

​You stopped by the old stone bench near the back wall. Iqbal sat down heavily, pulling you into the space beside him. He looked at you in the moonlight, his eyes tracing the lines on your face with the same needy reverence he’d had when you were both young and doomed.

​He reached out, his trembling fingers ghosting over your eyelids.

​"And if the devil was to ever see you," he whispered, the quote now a part of his very soul, "he'd kiss your eyes and repent."

​He leaned in, his lips pressing softly against your closed eyes, first the left, then the right. It was a kiss of absolute, final peace.

​"I repented a long time ago.." he murmured against your skin. "And look at the heaven I was given in return."

​You pulled him closer, your arms wrapping around his broad, aging frame. You weren't a Viper anymore, and he wasn't a Major. You were just two people who had turned a death sentence into a love song. The world outside could keep its wars, its borders, and its blood. Inside the jasmine-scented dark of the mansion, you were the only two people left in the world.

​As the first drops of a midnight rain began to fall, Iqbal leaned his forehead against yours.

​"Are you tired, Zahreeli?"

​"Never," you whispered, your hand finding his in the dark. "Not as long as I’m home."

The limestone walls of the mansion were now entirely submerged in ivy and ancient, gnarled jasmine vines that climbed toward the sky like prayers.

At ninety, Iqbal was no longer a soldier of the state; he was a monument of silence. His once-broad shoulders had finally bowed under the weight of time, and his hands, which had once gripped a service pistol with lethal intent, now spent their days trembling within yours.

​You were seventy-four, the silver of your hair a shimmering contrast to the deep, evergreen shadows of the veranda. You had spent forty-seven years as a ghost, a woman who had found her antidote in the very man sent to destroy her.

​The evening was exceptionally quiet. The grandchildren—Naima, Nizam, and Noor—were grown now, with children of their own running through the halls, their laughter a distant, melodic echo. Abbas, forty-four and the image of his father’s quiet strength, sat on the steps below you, watching the horizon.

​Iqbal layed in a reclined chair, his breathing a shallow, rhythmic rasp. He looked out at the garden you had built together, his eyes searching for the specific shade of green that had been his salvation. He reached out, his fingers fumbling for yours.

​You leaned over him, pressing your cheek to his. His skin felt like ancient parchment, but the heat of his soul still radiated against you.

​He turned his head slightly, his dark, clouded eyes meeting yours one last time. He didn't need to say the words; they had been lived every day for nearly half a century. With one final, steady exhale—the sound of a man finishing a long, weary watch—Iqbal’s hand went limp in yours. The Major had finally surrendered.

​

​The world did not end when he stopped breathing, but the color drained from the roses. You sat with him for hours, your hand still laced with his, your thumb tracing the silver jasmine band on his finger.

​The physicians would later call it Takotsubo cardiomyopathy—broken heart syndrome. But your son, his wife and your beloved grandchildren knew the truth: your soul was simply a shadow cast by his light, and when the light went out, the shadow had no choice but to vanish.

​As the moon rose over the garden, a sudden, sharp ache bloomed in your chest. It wasn't a pain of violence; it was a pulling sensation, as if an invisible thread was finally being reeled in. You lay down on the bed beside him, curling into the crook of his arm just as you had during the storm decades ago. You closed your eyes, the scent of jasmine filling your lungs one last time.

​By dawn, the mansion held two ghosts. You died only hours after him, refusing to let him navigate the dark pits of fire you expected for your joined sins on his own.

​Abbas stood in the center of the garden, his face a mask of grief and iron. He did not call the Directorate. He did not notify the state. He buried them in the heart of the garden, beneath the oldest white rose bush, where the roots could wrap around them both and hold them fast to the earth they had reclaimed.

​After the small, private burial, Abbas retreated to the cellar.

​The air was heavy with the smell of old paper and stone. On the mahogany table sat a small wooden chest. Inside were the only remnants of the life before: a forged death certificate for the "Viper," a few graining surveillance photos of a woman in an emerald veil, and the official reports signed by Major Iqbal certifying the successful execution of a high-value target.

​Abbas struck a match.

​He watched as the flames licked the edges of the paper. He watched the name turn to ash. He watched the records of the "Viper’s" crimes and the "Major’s" service dissolve into smoke that rose through the ventilation and vanished into the night air.

​"The secret dies here," Abbas whispered, his voice a perfect mirror of his father's. "There is no Viper. There was only my mother."

​By the time the sun rose, every official trace of your past life had been cremated. The world would remember Major Iqbal as a decorated officer who retired early to a quiet life; they would never know that his greatest mission had been a forty-seven-year lie.

​

​The mansion remained.

​Abbas lived there until his hair turned the same silver as his father's, raising his children to respect the silence of the garden. Then came Naima, who took over the care of the roses, and then her own son, who learned to walk on the same marble floors where a Major once paced in despair.

​Generation after generation, the family inherited the limestone fortress. They became doctors, artists, and teachers—none of them soldiers, just as Iqbal had wished. They didn't know the full details of the story; they only knew that the garden was sacred, and that the house was built on a love that had once been considered treason.

​The story of the "Soldier and the Rose" became a family legend, whispered to children when the storms were too loud. They were told of a great-great-grandfather and a great-great-grandmother and how they had outsmarted a whole world just to hold each other’s hands.

​And always, through the decades and the centuries, the scent of jasmine remained.

​It clung to the walls, infused the air of the bedrooms, and drifted through the halls. It was the living breath of the secret. Visitors to the mansion would often remark on the beauty of the grounds, but they always noted a strange, heavy peace that sat over the property—a feeling of being protected by something ancient and fierce.

​Underneath the white rose bush, where the soil was richest and the green was deepest, the Major and his Viper remained together. Their bones turned to earth, their hearts became the roots, and their love became the very air that their descendants breathed.

​The 48-hour death sentence had finally ended, but it had taken nearly 50 years to do so. And in the end, it wasn't the state that won, nor the "devil" who had come to kiss your eyes.

It was the silence. It was the green. It was the two of you, forever tucked away in the unwritten margin of a world that never deserved to know your names.

Darr tha ke mohabbat ki aag mein jal jayenge hum, Saza-e-ishq mein raakh ban kar bikhar jayenge hum.

Samjhe thay ke baghaawat ka anjaam dozakh hoga, Ke har gunaah ka badla sirf khauf aur matam hoga.

Magar maut ki dehleez par jab aankh khuli, Toh har taraf noor ki ek nayi dunya mili.

Na sholay thay, na koi azaab-e-inteqam tha, Wahan toh sirf sukoon aur hamara hi naam tha.

Khuda ne muskura kar hamari khataon ko mita diya, Aur ek purani mohabbat ko Jannat bana diya..

THE END.