The Jinn’s Child in a Human’s Arms

The Jinn’s Child in a Human’s Arms

The forest of Kallar Kahar had always been a place of quiet danger — too silent in the mornings, and too loud at night.

Locals avoided it after sundown. Not because of wild animals — but because of something else.
Stories floated in the air like mist: shadows whispering, fires burning without wood, and footsteps on trees.

But Rukhsana didn’t believe in stories.

A widow living on the edge of the forest, she spent her days gathering firewood and wild herbs. Her heart was stronger than her body, and her grief made her fearless.


---

One morning, as she ventured deeper than usual, she heard a sound that didn’t belong to the trees.

A cry.

Faint. Soft. Like a newborn.

She followed the sound and found him — lying under a fig tree wrapped in green silk, eyes wide open, giggling at the sky.

There were no footprints around. No sign of any human.

Just him.

He looked no older than three months. Fair skin, dark eyes — almost too dark — and tiny fingers that clutched the air like he was trying to grab stars.


---

Rukhsana looked around, called out, waited.

No one came.

Against every instinct, she picked him up.

> “You’re not mine,” she whispered. “But no soul deserves to be left alone.”



She named him Aahil — the one who brings joy.


---

As weeks passed, Aahil grew rapidly. He spoke his first word at three months. Walked at six. By the time he was one, he could recite full sentences and tell stories — stories he claimed he didn’t learn from anyone.

> “The trees talk to me,” he once told her.



She laughed, kissed his forehead, and dismissed it as imagination.

But strange things followed.


---

Animals refused to enter their yard. Birds flew away when Aahil cried. The wind behaved oddly around him — picking up only his toys, flipping only his pages.

At night, he would sit by the window and whisper.

> “Mama, the black man is here again.”



> “Who, beta?”



> “He stands behind the neem tree. He says I’m not yours.”



Rukhsana’s heart trembled — but she held him tighter.

> “You are mine. No matter what.”




---

On Aahil’s fourth birthday, she found a strange gift at the doorstep — a silver ring, warm to the touch, engraved with unreadable script.

Aahil smiled when he saw it.

> “It’s from my real father,” he said.



> “Who told you that?” she asked.



> “The red-eyed lady in my dream.”



That night, he didn’t sleep.

And neither did she.


---

The dreams turned into episodes. He would shake violently in sleep, speaking in voices too deep for a child. Once, he spoke in an ancient tongue — later identified by a local scholar as Suryani, a language no child could know.

By the age of six, Aahil began to change.

His eyes turned golden in moonlight. His laughter echoed for too long. Mirrors cracked when he stared into them. And once, when a neighbor slapped Rukhsana during an argument, the woman’s house caught fire that same night — without explanation.


---

Fearing what he was becoming, Rukhsana went to a saintly elder.

The man looked at her and asked just one question:

> “Where did you find the child?”



She told him.

He fell silent.

Then he whispered:

> “That tree you found him under… is known as Shamsheer Darakht. In old lore, it is where jinns leave the children they wish to give away. But they don’t abandon them. They place them. For a purpose.”



> “What purpose?” she asked.



> “Sometimes to spy. Sometimes to grow among humans. Sometimes… to love.”




---

Rukhsana returned home and found Aahil sitting quietly, staring into the sky.

> “Mama, they want me to come back.”



> “Will you go?”



> “Only if you stop loving me.”



Tears ran down her face.

> “Then never go.”




---

That night, she burned the silver ring.

And for weeks, things were peaceful. No voices. No dreams. No strange events.

But peace never lasts forever.

One night, the forest roared louder than ever before. Wind shook the house. Aahil sat up in bed, eyes glowing gold.

> “They’re here.”



> “Who?” she asked, trembling.



> “My real mother. She wants me back.”



Rukhsana held him tight. "No. You're mine."

He looked at her, his eyes filling with something not quite tears.

> “I love you, Mama. But love doesn’t always win.”



He fainted in her arms.


---

The next morning, he was gone.

No footprints. No scent. No trace.

Just a note written in ash:

> “He was born of fire, raised in love. But fire always returns to fire.”




---

Rukhsana never stopped setting a plate for him at dinner.

And sometimes, on silent nights, a toy moves. A candle lights itself. A faint giggle echoes.

And the wind carries a soft voice:

> “I’m still your son. Even if I burn.”