The hospital waiting room was a study in misery. The hum of the vending machine and the rhythmic thump-thump of the overhead fan seemed designed to keep us on edge.
Hours felt like days. My mother had finally fallen into a fitful sleep on a plastic chair, her head resting on Auntie Warda's shoulder. Hassan Uncle was pacing the corridor, his face etched with a worry that mirrored my own.
I stared at the double doors. I wasn't praying anymore; I was just trying to remember what it felt like to have a heartbeat that didn't feel like a drum of war.
Then, the doors swung open.
A doctor stepped out, his face tired, pulling his mask down. He didn't smile. He didn't look relieved. He just walked toward us, his gaze locking onto Hassan Uncle first, then me.
"He's stable," the doctor said, his voice clipped. "But the next forty-eight hours are critical. He's sustained significant cardiac stress."
I felt my legs give way. I grabbed the back of a chair to steady myself, my lungs finally releasing the air I felt like I'd been holding for a century.
Hassan Uncle was already asking technical questions about medications and recovery, his voice low and urgent. Zayn, who had been leaning against the wall, finally pushed himself off. He didn't approach me. He walked straight to his father, listening to the doctor with that same, terrifying "CEO" focus.
He was managing the crisis. He was managing everything.
Suddenly, the doors opened again, and a nurse signaled for the family to come in for a very brief, five-minute window.
We followed them in. Grandfather looked small in the bed, surrounded by wires and the rhythmic, mocking beep of the heart monitor. He was awake, but his eyes were cloudy.
He turned his head slowly, finding me, then shifting his gaze to Zayn.
His hand, bruised from the IVs, reached out weakly. Zayn stepped forward, his expression hardening as he saw the fragility of the man who had been a second father to him.
Grandfather Waqas let out a rattling breath. He looked at Hassan, then at Zayn, and finally, he gripped my hand. His fingers were cold, but his squeeze was surprisingly firm.
"Waqas, don't talk," Hassan said, his voice thick with emotion.
Grandfather ignored him. He shifted his eyes to Zayn. "The... library," he whispered, the effort clear in every syllable. "It... it must... finish. Together."
He turned his gaze back to me, his eyes searching mine with a desperation that left me breathless. "Promise... you will... finish it. With him. Together. Promise me."
The room went deathly silent.
Zayn stood at the foot of the bed, his hands clenched so tightly at his sides that his knuckles were white. He knew exactly what this was. It wasn't just about a renovation. It was the last, desperate wish of a man who was terrified that if we went our separate ways, we would lose everything—including each other.
I looked at Zayn. He was staring at me, his eyes dark and unreadable. He wasn't looking at the doctor or his father. He was looking at me, waiting to see if I would trap us both in this.
"I promise, Dada," I whispered, the words feeling like a physical weight settling on my shoulders.
Grandfather turned to Zayn. He didn't speak, but he didn't have to. The question hung in the air: Will you?
Zayn hesitated. For a moment, the old Zayn—the boy who hated being told what to do—flashed in his eyes. But then he looked at the monitors, at the pale skin of the man he'd loved as a father, and he gave a single, sharp nod.
"I promise," Zayn said, his voice sounding hollow.
Grandfather closed his eyes, a flicker of peace crossing his face. The nurse tapped her watch—time was up.
As we walked out into the cold, sanitized hallway, the air between us felt charged with the vow we'd just made. We were tied together now, not by friendship, but by a deathbed promise.
Zayn stopped near the elevator. He didn't look at me, but he spoke, his voice ice-cold.
"I hope you're happy, Alayna. We just signed a contract we can't get out of."
He turned and walked toward the stairs, leaving me standing alone in the hallway, the weight of the promise already beginning to crush me.