The Progress

The wind howled through the empty corridors of the lab. Cold steel walls echoed the footsteps of Professor Farhan, a man whose name once symbolized brilliance—now shadowed by obsession. His eyes, once gentle with curiosity, now burned with ambition.

His sister, Mrs. Anum, stood at the doorway, her shawl clutched tightly around her as if bracing against more than the cold. She watched him with tired eyes, the kind that had cried enough for a lifetime. Her son, Ali, had died just three months ago—another nameless casualty in the bloody war that had ripped their nations apart.

"Farhan," she said softly, "please… stop this madness."

He didn't turn. His hands moved methodically over the glowing control panel.

"You know why I can’t," he replied. "This—this is our progress. This is how we protect ourselves. No one will ever dare touch our soil again once we have it."

"Our soil is soaked in blood!" Anum’s voice cracked. "Ali is gone. My child is gone. Don’t you see? That war you speak of—your research, your weapons—they all contributed to it."

He paused for a moment. The silence hung between them like fog, thick and suffocating.

"Ali died a hero," Farhan finally said, quieter now. "And he didn't die in vain. His sacrifice, and many others, will make sure no mother has to cry like you do now."

Anum stepped forward. Her eyes, moist and red, locked onto her brother's.

"Do you hear yourself?" she said, voice trembling. "You're saying we need to build a weapon that can wipe out millions, so no one else dies? You think if we become monsters, no one will challenge us? That’s not protection, Farhan… that’s terror."

He looked at her then. Not with hate. Not even anger. Just with that same, cold conviction that had driven him since the first day he chose war over peace.

"You wouldn’t understand," he said. "You’ve always been emotional. That’s your weakness."

"And your heartless ambition is your curse," she replied.

He turned away again, back to the blinking lights and the humming machines. "It’s already happening. We’re close. Just a few more adjustments. And then—history will remember my name."

Anum's fingers curled into fists. Her heart screamed. She remembered Ali's last smile, his voice over the phone, telling her he was proud to serve. That he missed her. That he’d be home soon. But he never came back.

Her home was filled with silence now. And she could not let another mother’s home echo with that same silence.

That night, Professor Farhan worked late. The lab was dim, glowing only with the soft green pulse of monitors and the occasional spark from equipment. Anum sat in the shadows, watching. Waiting.

Her hands trembled—not out of fear, but from the weight of the decision she had made.

She approached him quietly.

"Farhan," she whispered.

He turned, surprised to see her still there. "You should go home. You’ve said your piece."

She nodded. "I have. But you didn’t listen."

Before he could respond, she stepped forward, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“I prayed I’d never lose another person I love. But maybe… maybe to save the world, I have to.”

He frowned. “What are you—?”

A glint of steel flashed under the cold lab lights.

A single sound. Then silence.

Farhan gasped, stumbling back, hand clutching the wound blooming red on his chest. He looked at her, eyes wide not with hatred—but confusion. Betrayal. And maybe, somewhere in there, understanding.

“You…” he whispered, falling to his knees.

Anum dropped the blade. Her legs gave way, and she knelt beside him, sobbing.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, holding him close. “I had to. I had to stop you before you became the man who destroyed the world. Before you made another mother cry.”

He tried to speak, but no words came. Just a tear, sliding down his cheek, as if finally realizing what he had become.

The headlines the next morning were filled with shock. “Renowned Scientist Found Dead in Lab.” The government hushed the details, burying the project, calling it a failed experiment.

But in her quiet home, Anum lit a candle by her son’s photo. She placed another beside it—for her brother.

One had died in war.

The other, in the name of peace.

She stood by the window, watching the dawn break. The sky bled orange and red. But today, there were no bombs. No sirens. Just birds. Just silence. Just peace.

And somewhere in that silence, she hoped, Ali was smiling.