The Last Goodbye

The village of Darban was still asleep under a heavy winter fog when seven-year-old Ahmed opened his eyes. The sound of the azaan echoed through the cold air, and the morning light crept lazily through the cracks of their mud house. Ahmed sat up, pulled his thin shawl around his tiny shoulders, and looked toward the wooden door where his father’s suitcase rested.

Today was the day his father would leave again — for the city, for work, for who knows how long.

He had only arrived last night after six long months. Ahmed had stayed awake all night, staring at his father's tired face, his rough hands, and his kind eyes. He had waited so long for this return, and now it felt like it was already ending.

His father had told stories of city buses, tall buildings, and the smell of hot naan from a tandoor. Ahmed had laughed, but his laugh had a sadness in it — as if time was too cruel.

"Abu, why do you go away every time?" he asked quietly.

His father looked down, silent. Then he whispered,

"For you, my son. So one day, you won’t have to."

But Ahmed wasn’t sure. What if the city never gave his father back? What if this goodbye was forever?

As the sun slowly rose, his mother folded her shawl and gave a weak smile.

“Ahmed, come give your father a salaam,” she said softly.

Ahmed stood by the door, hesitated, and then ran forward, hugging his father’s legs tightly.

“I came to give my last salaam, Abu,” he said, his voice barely audible.

His father chuckled and knelt down. “Why the last, beta? I’ll return like always.”

Ahmed looked away. “I don’t know... I just feel it.”

His father hugged him tightly and kissed his forehead. He didn’t say anything else. Just stood up, picked up his bag, and walked into the misty path that led out of the village.

---

Days passed. Then weeks. Then months.

The letters stopped. The phone calls never came.

And then, one afternoon, a stranger knocked on their door — a man with red eyes, a pale face, and trembling hands.

“Sister… forgive me. Your husband… there was an accident in the factory. A gas explosion. He didn’t make it.”

Ahmed’s mother collapsed to the floor, letting out a cry that shook the walls of the house. The man turned to Ahmed and said,

“Son… that salaam you gave him… it really was the last.”

Ahmed didn’t cry. He just stood still, like a statue carved in grief.

Because deep inside, he already knew.

---

Years rolled by like fallen leaves in the wind. Ahmed grew into a tall, quiet boy with eyes older than his age. He worked in a restaurant in the city, washing dishes all day, and sent every rupee home to his mother. Life was tough, but his heart was tougher.

Yet every morning, as he walked past the school near his street, he would stop by the gate and greet the little children.

“Assalamualaikum, little stars!” he’d say, ruffling their hair, tying a shoelace, or handing out a candy.

The children loved him, though they didn’t really know him. He was the kind stranger who never forgot to smile.

One morning, a small boy named Daniyal asked curiously,

“Bhai, why do you always say salaam to us? Every day?”

Ahmed looked at him and then said softly,

“Because I once gave someone a salaam… and never got the chance to give another.”

Daniyal blinked. “Was it your friend?”

Ahmed smiled gently. “My father.”

The boy looked down, unsure what to say. Then he stepped forward and hugged Ahmed around the waist.

Ahmed gently placed his hand on the boy’s head.

That night, Daniyal told his parents:

“Today I learned how important a goodbye can be.”

---

Ending Message:

We never know when the last goodbye will come. Sometimes it's quiet. Sometimes it's sudden. But always — it stays.

So never hold back your love. Never skip a chance to hug, to smile, to say salaam.

Because one day… it might just be the last.