Time, the gentle river, flowed around the Khan household. The fierce spotlight of the Sadia Khalil case gradually dimmed, replaced by the steady, warm glow of ordinary life. Ubaid, no longer a baby but a vibrant, babbling toddler on the cusp of his first year, was the epicenter of their world. His explorations grew bolder – tentative steps becoming confident strides, incoherent babble forming recognizable words ("Abbu!", "Ammi!", "No!" with surprising clarity). The shadow of Haroon's injury lingered only in the occasional stiffness in his shoulder and the fading scar beneath his uniform.
One sunny afternoon, Maryam sat cross-legged on the living room floor, building a precarious tower of colorful blocks with Ubaid. He promptly knocked it over with a gleeful shout, sending blocks skittering across the rug. Maryam laughed, scooping him up for a tickle attack that elicited infectious giggles.
**Maryam (nuzzling Ubaid's neck):** "Oh, you little demolition expert! Look at you! Almost one whole year old!" She looked up as Haroon entered, loosening his tie after a day at headquarters. "Haroon! Can you believe it? Our little moon is almost one!"
**Haroon (grinning, bending down to kiss Ubaid's head and then Maryam's forehead):** "Impossible. Wasn't he just learning to focus his eyes yesterday?" He scooped Ubaid up, tossing him gently in the air, making him shriek with delight. "One year... SubhanAllah. Feels like a lifetime and a blink."
**Maryam (getting up, brushing imaginary dust off her knees):** "We should celebrate, Haroon. Properly. His first birthday... it deserves something special." She pulled out her phone, swiping to the calendar. "Look! Only fifteen days left! The 15th is next Saturday."
**Haroon (bouncing Ubaid on his hip, unfazed):** "Fifteen days? Plenty of time, meri jaan. More than enough. You just decide the battlefield – home turf advantage or outsourcing to a marriage hall fortress? My vote is home. More personal. Less chance of Ubaid getting lost in a crowd." He winked.
**Maryam (smiling, already mentally planning):** "Home. Definitely. Cozy, just family, close friends... maybe Abbu's bookstore staff? We can decorate the garden... fairy lights, balloons... a little cake..." Her eyes sparkled with the vision.
**Haroon (setting a wriggling Ubaid down to chase a ball):** "Perfect. Operation: First Cake Assault is greenlit. You command the decorations and catering. I'll handle security and crowd control." He gave a mock salute. "And maybe... a special project."
**Scene 2: Shadows on Paper – Sketching the Scars**
Over the next few evenings, after Ubaid was bathed, read to, and finally surrendered to sleep, Haroon retreated not to case files, but to his seldom-used sketchpad and pencils in the quiet study. Maryam, busy researching cake designs or compiling guest lists online, noticed his focused silence but respected it.
One night, drawn by the intense concentration radiating from the study, she peeked in. Haroon sat bathed in the pool of light from his desk lamp, head bent over the large pad. His good hand moved with deliberate strokes, the pencil scratching softly. The bandage was off now, the scar still visible but healing well.
**Maryam (leaning against the doorframe, softly):** "Working on a new case sketch?" She often teased him about his habit of sketching crime scene layouts.
**Haroon (startled slightly, then looked up, a complex expression on his face – not pain, but a deep introspection):** "Not... a case. Not exactly." He hesitated, then turned the sketchpad around.
Maryam stepped closer. Her breath caught. It wasn't a crime scene. It was *her*. Rendered in stark, powerful pencil strokes. She stood in the foreground, her back mostly to the viewer, but her posture screamed anguish – shoulders hunched, one hand half-raised to her face. Her gaze was fixed on a figure lying in a hospital bed in the middle ground – Haroon, drawn with startling vulnerability, his face pale, eyes closed, an IV line snaking from his arm, the bandage on his shoulder prominent. The perspective was slightly skewed, capturing the disorienting terror of that moment. The focus was entirely on Maryam's raw, visceral fear as she looked at her wounded husband. The title, scrawled in the corner, was simple: *The Unseen Wound*.
**Maryam (staring at the sketch, her hand unconsciously going to her own shoulder, her voice barely a whisper):** "Haroon... this... this is from the hospital? When you first woke up?"
**Haroon (nodding, his gaze fixed on the drawing, not her):** "The look on your face... it haunted me more than the bullet, Maryam. That pure, unadulterated terror. The cost... the cost *you* paid. I couldn't get it out of my head." He traced the lines of her drawn back. "I needed to... put it somewhere. Outside of me."
Maryam looked from the stark, painful image on the paper to Haroon's face, etched with the memory of his own helplessness in causing her that fear. The room felt very still.
**Maryam (after a long moment, her voice gentle but firm):** "It's... powerful, Haroon. You captured it. The fear was real. But..." She reached out and gently turned the sketchpad face down on the desk. She met his eyes, her own filled with a different kind of intensity now. "But that's not the picture I want to hold onto. That's not the story of Ubaid's first year." She placed her hand over his, the one that held the pencil. "Put *this* on paper, jaan. Put the light. Put *him*." She gestured towards the hallway, towards Ubaid's room. "Draw the demolition expert knocking down towers. Draw the sticky fingers grabbing cake. Draw the gummy smile when he sees his Abbu walk through the door. *That*," she said, her voice gaining strength, "*that* is the image that heals. That's the fortress we built together, brick by joyful brick. Draw *life*, Haroon. Draw Ubaid."
**Scene 3: Crayons and Cake – Celebrating the Light**
The sketch of *The Unseen Wound* remained face down in Haroon's drawer. In its place, on his desk, new sketches began to appear. Quick, vibrant pencil studies capturing moments of pure, unadulterated joy:
* Ubaid, face smeared with mashed banana, grinning triumphantly from his high chair.
* Ubaid taking his first wobbly independent steps towards Maryam's outstretched arms, a look of fierce concentration on his tiny face.
* Ubaid asleep, curled up like a kitten, one hand clutching Rimsha's finger as she read beside his crib.
* Haroon himself, kneeling on the floor, Ubaid perched precariously on his shoulders, both laughing under the dappled sunlight in the garden.
Fifteen days flew by in a whirlwind of preparations. Maryam orchestrated with calm efficiency: fairy lights twinkled in the trees, colorful balloons bobbed cheerfully, a magnificent (and slightly lopsided) cake shaped like a number "1" was ordered. Abbu arrived early, his eyes misty watching his grandson. Rimsha became the official photographer and toddler-wrangler. Close friends, Haroon's most trusted colleagues (including a beaming Rafique and Ahmed), and a few of Abbu's bookstore family filled the garden with warm chatter.
Ubaid, dressed in a tiny, crisp white kurta shalwar, was the star, wide-eyed at the attention, gleefully smashing his fist into his birthday cake when prompted, showering everyone (especially a laughing Haroon) with blue frosting. The air buzzed with laughter, camera clicks, and the pure, uncomplicated joy of celebrating life.
As the afternoon sun slanted golden, guests began to leave, hugging Ubaid and offering warm wishes. Finally, only the family remained amidst the happy wreckage of wrapping paper and cake crumbs. Abbu dozed gently in an armchair. Rimsha scrolled through photos, chuckling. Maryam leaned against Haroon on the garden bench, Ubaid fast asleep in her arms, exhausted by his own party.
**Haroon (watching Ubaid's peaceful face, his arm around Maryam):** "Operation: First Cake Assault... successful. Minor frosting casualties, but morale is high."
**Maryam (smiling, resting her head on his shoulder):** "The best kind of victory." She looked at the sketches he'd pinned subtly on the inside of the patio doors – the moments of light, not the shadow. "You chose well, Haroon."
Haroon looked down at Ubaid, then at Maryam, then at the sketches catching the fading light. He thought of the image buried in his drawer – a testament to pain faced and endured. But here, in the soft warmth of the evening, surrounded by the tangible love and life they had created, the dominant picture was clear. It wasn't the scar, the fear, or the darkness they had fought. It was *this*: the weight of his sleeping son in Maryam's arms, the quiet rhythm of their breathing, the fortress of their family humming with peace. He kissed the top of Maryam's head.
**Haroon (softly):** "The best canvas, meri jaan. Always the best canvas." The story continued, not defined by the wounds, but illuminated by the relentless, joyful light of their shared tomorrows, starting with one small boy's first, magnificent year.
Scene 4: Whispers Before the Celebration
The golden afternoon light spilled through the bedroom curtains, casting a warm glow over Maryam as she stood before the mirror, adjusting the delicate embroidery of her midnight blue and gold saree. The fabric shimmered with every subtle movement, the intricate zari work catching the light like scattered stars. She secured the pallu over her shoulder, her fingers lingering on the golden border, before reaching for her earrings—small, elegant drops that complemented the richness of her attire.
Behind her, the bedroom door clicked shut.
Before she could turn, strong arms encircled her waist, pulling her back against a firm chest. Haroon's lips brushed the curve of her neck, his breath warm against her skin.
**Maryam (laughing softly, squirming slightly):** "Haroon, stop—we're getting late. The guests will be here any minute."
But he didn't stop. His hands slid up her waist, fingers tracing the dip of her spine through the thin fabric of her saree blouse. His lips trailed up to her ear, his voice a low, rough murmur.
**Haroon:** "Let them wait."
She turned in his arms, her hands pressing against his chest—half-hearted resistance. His blue dress shirt was already slightly rumpled, the top button undone, the black suit jacket discarded somewhere behind them. His gaze was dark, intense, tracing the lines of her face before dipping lower, lingering on the way the saree clung to her curves.
**Maryam (breathless, a whisper):** "We can't—"
He silenced her with a kiss, deep and possessive, one hand tangling in the loose strands of her hair, the other gripping her waist, pulling her flush against him. She melted into him instantly, her fingers curling into his shirt, the protest dying on her lips.
The world outside this room—the party, the guests, the responsibilities—faded into insignificance.
---
**Rimsha (knocking sharply on the door, voice teasingly impatient):** "Baji? Bhai? Ubaid's trying to eat the cake frosting, and Abbu's asking where you are. Are you two *ever* coming out?"
Inside, Maryam gasped, breaking the kiss, her cheeks flushed. Haroon exhaled roughly, resting his forehead against hers, his grip on her waist tightening for a moment before reluctantly loosening.
**Haroon (voice rough, amused):** "Tell them five minutes."
**Maryam (swatting his shoulder, laughing breathlessly):** "Five minutes? Look at me—my hair, my *saree*—"
He smirked, running a hand through his own disheveled hair before straightening his shirt. "You look perfect."
She huffed, quickly retying the pleats of her saree, her fingers trembling slightly. Haroon watched her, his gaze heated, before finally grabbing his suit jacket from the bed.
**Haroon (grinning, utterly unrepentant):** "Worth it."
Maryam shot him a glare, but there was no real irritation in it—only the lingering warmth of his touch, the unspoken promise of *later*.
By the time they finally emerged—Maryam smoothing her saree, Haroon adjusting his cuffs with a satisfied smirk—the party was in full swing.
And if Rimsha noticed the faint smudge of Maryam's lipstick, the slight disarray of her carefully styled hair, or the way Haroon's hand lingered possessively at the small of her back—well, she wisely chose not to say a word.
(But she *did* make sure to serve them both the spiciest appetizers first—just for fun.)