Rainwater dripped from the school gate as students rushed past with laughter and umbrellas.
Right outside the exit stood a yellow taxi.
The moment Rayyan saw his bags stuffed inside the trunk, the tiny hope inside him disappeared completely.
So it's real.
We're actually leaving again.
"Hurry up. We don't have time," his mother said sharply.
Her voice carried an edge that made his stomach tighten.
Rayyan clenched his fists but quietly stepped into the taxi anyway.
"Why…" he muttered under his breath.
His mother looked at him.
"Why do you keep doing this to us? Can't you understand what happens every time?"
"You're just a child," she snapped immediately. "I know what I'm doing, so just stay quiet."
Rayyan looked away toward the rain-covered window.
If you knew what you were doing… then why does everything always break apart?
Then he noticed someone sitting in the front seat.
His grandfather.
An old man with tired eyes and pale skin.
The sight of him made Rayyan's chest feel heavier.
Why is he helping again…?
He's the one suffering the most every time this happens.
"Hello, Abo," Rayyan said quietly.
His grandfather turned around and gave a weak smile.
"Hello, Rayyan. Hello, Daud."
His voice sounded calm, but exhausted.
"Don't worry," he added softly. "Everything will be alright soon."
Rayyan didn't reply.
Daud sat silently beside their mother, clinging to her arm without saying a word.
The taxi moved through the rainy streets while silence filled the car.
Nobody knew what to say anymore.
Or maybe everyone was simply tired.
—
Soon, they reached the train station.
The massive structure towered over the wet roads like a giant from another world.
Rayyan stepped out slowly.
Cold wind hit his face immediately.
The gray sky.
The smell of rain.
The sound of distant train horns.
Everything about the place felt painfully familiar.
"Ooh… this place brings back memories," he whispered bitterly.
Some memories were good.
Most were not.
People rushed through the station carrying luggage while announcements echoed through the terminal speakers.
Rayyan stood still for a moment, staring blankly at the tracks.
How many times has this happened now…?
One? Two? Three…?
No. Four times.
His grandfather slowly sat down on a nearby bench and held his chest for a second before forcing himself to relax.
"It seems my health is getting worse," he said casually. "I'll go to the hospital nearby for a little while."
Their mother looked worried.
"Abo, are you sure—"
"There's still time before the train leaves," he interrupted gently. "I'll take Ahyat with me. Don't worry."
Even while struggling to breathe properly, he still tried to sound calm.
Rayyan watched him carefully.
The old man's hands trembled slightly.
His face looked pale.
Yet nobody stopped him.
Why does he always have to suffer because of us…?
He needs rest.
But nobody lets him rest.
A deep feeling of helplessness settled inside Rayyan's chest.
And then his mind drifted back to the previous night.
—
The night before.
Rayyan lay on his bed watching anime on his phone while completely ignoring his homework scattered beside him.
"This is sooo good," he whispered excitedly.
"They're finally winning. Less gooo!"
He grinned and stood up.
"Okay, food time."
As he walked toward the kitchen, he suddenly heard his mother speaking on the phone in the other room.
Her voice sounded shaky.
"I promise I won't do that again… I understand living with him isn't okay anymore."
Silence.
Then—
"I don't want to live with him anymore. Please."
Rayyan froze instantly.
His heartbeat stopped for a second.
What…?
No.
Things were getting normal again… weren't they?
He slowly stepped backward and locked himself inside the bathroom.
The bright white light above him suddenly felt suffocating.
"It's happening again…" he whispered to himself.
"Again…"
His breathing became uneven as tears rolled down his face.
He wiped them away angrily.
Why can't anything stay normal for once?
A few minutes later, he walked out and confronted his mother directly.
"Don't do this again," he said coldly.
His mother stared at him silently.
"You're making the same mistake again and again," he continued.
"Nothing changes."
"You don't understand," she replied quietly.
"No," Rayyan snapped. "You don't understand."
Then he walked away before she could answer.
—
Back to the present.
Two hours later, their grandfather finally returned.
He looked even weaker than before.
"Go change your clothes," their mother told the brothers. "The train will arrive soon."
"Okay," Daud replied softly.
"O…okay," Rayyan muttered.
After changing, he sat down heavily on a chair near the platform while rain continued outside.
Then he looked directly at his mother.
"Answer me honestly."
She looked up from her phone.
"Why did you do this again?"
His voice shook slightly.
"And why are you making grandfather go through all this again too?"
His mother's expression hardened.
"You don't know your father," she said quietly. "He was never kind to me."
Rayyan immediately replied.
"But it was your choice to go back to him before."
Silence.
His mother looked away.
Rayyan's disappointment only grew deeper.
Nobody ever thinks about what happens to us.
Just then, his grandfather returned carrying the tickets.
"Alright," he said gently. "It's time."
The family slowly boarded the train and entered their cabin.
As Rayyan placed his bag down, he noticed his mother secretly texting someone.
Probably his father.
Pretending everything was normal.
Pretending she was still home.
Deceiving people…
That's all anyone does anymore.
Unable to stay inside, Rayyan climbed to the upper berth and stared at the ceiling quietly.
The train whistle echoed loudly.
Then the cabin began to shake.
Slowly, the train started moving.
The city lights outside drifted farther and farther away.
Rayyan watched silently as the familiar streets disappeared behind the rain-covered window.
My life is so unpredictable.
I never even did anything wrong.
So why does everything keep changing?
The train sped through the darkness.
And little by little, they left the city behind.
Ahead of them waited their destination—
Karachi
The City of Lights.