The warm Karachi sun spilled golden light across the balcony, painting the terracotta pots and the folds of Shahana’s rust-colored kurta.
She sat quietly, sipping chai from her favorite white mug, the one with the faint crack she never bothered to replace.
The home was still and quiet, apart from the occasional chirp of a beautiful myna that would often visit.
All three of her children were married now, spread across Lahore, Dubai, and Toronto.
Once noisy with laughter, rants, and tears, the home now echoed only memories.
Shahana whispered softly into the stillness,
“Remember how Saad used to steal the samosas before iftar? And Hira, always hiding in the bathroom to avoid homework…”
Her voice cracked slightly, but her smile lingered.
She glanced at the empty chair across from her. It had been her husband’s favorite spot before his sudden passing five years ago.
“You’d laugh at how quiet it’s gotten. You always said I’d miss the noise.”
The breeze teased a strand of her graying hair. Her fingers curled around the cup as if holding onto moments that slipped through time.
But she wasn’t bitter. She was proud. She had raised good kids. She had given love. She had lived.
Still, she whispered,
“What now, Shahana? What do I do with all this space, this silence?”
A gentle gust rustled the plants, as if in answer.
She sighed, then smiled to herself.
“Maybe… I’ll start painting again.”
And for the first time in a while, the silence felt like a canvas.
Writer | Scribbler of Dramatic Verses | Zoophilist | Empath |In the midst of writing my very first Novel | Mens Skincare Coming Soon | Husband’s Right Hand
