Hearts against the Storm

The sun had barely risen over the horizon when I opened my eyes in Hamza’s small apartment. The air was still, heavy with tension. Alya lay beside me on the mattress, curled up, clutching the shawl Hamza had given her the night before. I could see the bruise on her arm — Azeel’s mark. My blood boiled at the sight.

Hamza handed me tea and sat beside me.

“You can’t keep running, Taimoor. We need to flip the game now — make Azeel answer publicly.”

“And how do we do that? He owns half the silence in this city.”

“Not all of it,” Hamza said with a sly grin. “People are already talking. We just need to give them something louder to listen to.”

That day, Hamza pulled every string he had. He connected with underground bloggers, social activists, and even a documentary filmmaker. We began to build a narrative — truth, but dangerous truth. We recorded Alya’s statement. She spoke bravely, describing everything Azeel had done — the kidnapping, the threats, the surveillance.

But before we could upload it, we received a warning: a video.

It was sent anonymously, but we knew who was behind it.

My father.

In the video, he stood with folded arms, his eyes colder than I’d ever seen. “Come home now, Taimoor,” he said. “Or forget you ever had a family.”

I should’ve expected it. He wasn’t just angry at me for defying his authority — he was haunted by history. He still believed Alya’s blood carried the curse that killed his brother.

But what he didn’t know — what I hadn’t known — was that the story we’d been told all our lives wasn’t complete.

Later that night, Hamza handed me an old, weathered file.

“Someone from inside your father’s circle dropped this off anonymously,” he said.

Inside the file were police reports, old testimonies, and two startling facts:

My uncle’s death had happened during a business deal gone wrong — land that both my family and the Sherzais had invested in.

The main suspect? Not Alya’s grandfather — but a third party, now conveniently dead. Malik Sherzai had been blamed, yes. But nothing was ever proven. The real killer? Still a mystery.

My world shifted under my feet.

I felt like a pawn in someone else’s chessboard all along.

We decided to hold a press meet in secret — invite only, trusted journalists. We booked a rundown hall in the old city and planned to release the files and Alya’s video.

It was risky. But necessary.

That night, before we left, I stood on the rooftop with Alya.

“Are you scared?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Not with you. Never with you.”

I kissed her forehead.

“For whatever happens, Alya… I’m sorry I didn’t protect you sooner.”

“And I’m sorry,” she said quietly, “for what my family’s past took from yours.”

We didn’t speak after that. We just held each other.

At the venue, the press began to arrive — about a dozen journalists and media workers. Hamza gave the opening words. I was to speak next.

But just as I stepped up to the mic, the power cut out.

Seconds later, a rock smashed through the window.

Then a second.

Then a third.

Panic rippled through the crowd.

A voice boomed from outside: “There will be no story tonight!”

Azeel.

The coward didn’t even show his face. He just sent his men.

Chaos erupted. Chairs overturned. The crowd scrambled to leave.

Hamza grabbed the camera bag. Alya pulled me out the back door.

We ran through the alley as firecrackers — or maybe real bullets — cracked behind us.

We made it out. Barely.

Back in the apartment, Hamza was shaken. “They were listening. Someone on the inside betrayed us.”

But I didn’t care about the betrayal.

I cared that they were scared.

We had rattled them.

We weren’t just lovers now. We were rebels. Symbols. A story they couldn’t fully silence.

That night, I received a message on my phone.

No name. Just three words:

“Come alone. Midnight.”

Attached was a location pin — an abandoned farmhouse on the outskirts.

Alya looked at me. “It’s a trap.”

“I know.”

“You’re not going,” she said.

“I have to.”

She touched my cheek, her voice trembling. “Then I’m going too.”

“No. If something happens to me, you have to finish the fight. Release the files. Tell the world everything.”

She looked at me for a long time. Then, reluctantly, nodded.

“I’ll wait for you, Taimoor. Come back to me.”

I smiled.

“I always will.”