Morning light had spilled across the room, soft and golden, seeping through the white curtains in gentle threads.
A cool breeze drifted in, brushing against her cheek where she lay wrapped in a blanket lost in deep sleep.
The sunlight reached her face, warm and uninvited—she stirred slightly, pulling the blanket closer as if hiding from the day itself.
But a moment later—Her eyes flew open.
Her breath caught in her throat.
"Oh God… not again!"
She muttered, glancing at the clock before jumping out of bed.
"Ilyana!"
Maryam's voice echoed from the floor below—for what must have been the tenth time that morning.
Ilyana snatched her bag, slipped on her shoes, and ran down the stairs.
"I've been calling you forever!"
Maryam scolded, setting the jam jar on the breakfast table.
"I didn't hear a single word,"
Ilyana replied lazily, sipping orange juice straight from the glass.
"Astaghfirullah! We live in the same house, Sis,"
Yusuf chimed in, breaking a slice of bread.
"As far as I know, there's no room here where sound doesn't reach!"
Ilyana shot him a glare.
"One more word, and I'll throw you out of the moving car myself."
"Dad! She's threatening to throw me out of the car!"
Hooram's sweet, teasing voice came from across the table.
Ilyana pressed her temples.
"Why are you quiet, Ibrahim? Say something!"
Ibrahim lifted his hands in mock prayer.
"Ya Allah, You are our Creator and Protector.
You've saved us from all troubles before…
Now please, save us from this one too—and marry her off quickly!"
He finished dramatically, grabbed his bag, and bolted for the door.
Ilyana blinked—then grabbed her own bag and ran after him, while Maryam Begum could only smile, shaking her head.
Moments later, the sound of a car engine filled the air.
Ilyana drove everyone to school before heading to the university herself.
Zakariya had allowed only her to drive—the only one responsible enough to have a license.
The morning sun glimmered off the city streets, casting dappled shadows across her windshield. There was a quiet confidence on her face—a calm awareness that she wasn't like the rest.
At the university gates, all eyes turned to her, as always.
A black high-neck top, matching palazzo pants, and that long black coat—simple, yet commanding. Her loose red hair fell freely down her back, catching light as she walked.
She rarely smiled, rarely spoke—and that made her all the more magnetic, all the more mysterious.
By the time classes ended, dusk had begun to settle.
The sunlight dimmed to amber, and the world grew quieter.
Leaving campus, she drove straight to an old café—abandoned long ago, tucked in a part of town no one visited anymore.
Parking in the cracked stone porch, Ilyana stepped out.
The building loomed silent, its paint peeling, its windows clouded with dust.
Inside, a heavy stillness hung in the air—as if time itself had stopped breathing there.
She moved toward the fireplace, pressed a sequence of hidden codes, and a faint mechanical click echoed. A concealed door slid open.
She entered—and it sealed shut behind her.
The corridor was dimly lit, leading to a small hall-like space—a kitchenette to one side, a brown door to the other.
She opened it.
A modest, perfectly arranged room appeared before her — a bed in one corner, a wardrobe in another, a desk and a bookshelf facing her. Every item was neat, deliberate, like the person who owned it.
She pulled out a change of clothes, disappeared into the washroom, and returned moments later wearing a plain green outfit.
Her hair was tied loosely in a bun, her face calm, composed, almost unreadable.
She cooked herself a small meal, ate in silence, and then wandered back to her study area.
Taking a water bottle in hand, she moved to the bookshelf—pulled a few volumes out rearranged others.
With a soft click, the hidden mechanism triggered.
The back panel of the shelf slid open, revealing another room.
She stepped inside.
Rows of glowing screens illuminated the dark.
Wires coiled across the floor like veins, connecting monitors, drives, and modified devices.
In the center stood a sleek black desk covered with laptops, cables, and blinking modems.
She sat, fingers flying over the keyboard.
Lines of code flickered to life, commands executed in rapid precision.
Her expression hardened—detached, focused.
She wasn't breaking rules; she was rewriting them.
Hours slipped away unnoticed.
The only sound was the hum of her machines.
When she finally looked at the clock, it was deep into the night.
She exhaled softly, shut down the system, and left the hidden room.
Sitting on the bed, she called her mother.
The phone was answered almost immediately.
"Mom, I'm not coming home tonight. Please, just sleep," she said wearily.
"What? Ilyana, come home now!
How can I sleep knowing you're out there alone?"
Maryam's voice trembled through the speaker.
"Mom, please… I'm exhausted.
It's late, and I just want to rest.
Don't worry, okay?"
"Talk to your father,"
Maryam insisted, passing the phone to Zakariya.
"Dad, please tell Mom to relax.
I'm not a child. I can handle myself."
Her tone was firm, bordering on irritation.
There was a pause—then his calm voice replied,
"All right. Stay there.
But come home first thing in the morning."
"Got it. Goodnight."
She hung up quickly.
"Ugh… Mom, seriously,"
she mumbled, collapsing back onto the bed.
The room was bathed in golden lamplight.
Through the window, a sliver of moonlight fell across the floor.
Her red hair spilled over the pillow, and her breathing steadied.
Until....
Her eyes snapped open.
Something was… off.
The air had changed.
A scent—faint, yet sharp—floated through the room.
Soft, heavy, unfamiliar.
A fragrance she couldn't place—but one her body somehow remembered.
She sat up, scanning the room.
The door—closed.
The window—locked.
Still, the scent thickened.
She moved cautiously, checking the corners, the shelves—and then she saw it.
By the bookshelf, resting neatly on the floor, was a bouquet of black roses.
Their petals glistened like velvet in the dim light.
Their scent — intoxicating, haunting.
Not just flowers. A message.
Her heartbeat quickened.
Her body trembled.
Her feet stumbled backward until she hit the edge of the bed.
"No… no…" Her voice cracked, her head shaking violently as if denying reality itself.
One word echoed through her mind.....
Butterfly.
That voice.
That name.
The ghost she had buried years ago…had found her again.
She bolted.
Rushed through the corridor, burst out of the café doors into the cold night air.
The streets were empty, bathed in silver moonlight.
She was barefoot, still in her green nightdress, her hair disheveled, her pulse racing.
She reached her car—then froze.
The keys.
They were still inside.
Her breath hitched.
She looked down the silent road—dark, endless,
and soaked in the same suffocating fragrance.
Panic surged through her.
She turned and ran—faster, as if her own shadow were chasing her.
Her footsteps echoed down the deserted street, the sound of her ragged breaths slicing through the night.
And somewhere behind the café's cracked window, behind the curtain that swayed ever so slightly…
someone was still watching her.