Sunrise

The Morning Arman Woke Up

Arman Khan had not seen a sunrise in over five years.

Not because the sun refused to rise where he lived, or because clouds blocked it. But because he never bothered to look. For years, mornings were mechanical for him — the shrill cry of the alarm, the drag of his legs off the bed, the sleep still clinging to his eyes as he reached for his phone. He didn’t wake up to live; he woke up to function.

Arman was 34, single, and lived in a small apartment in Karachi, not far from the beach. From his balcony, if he tried, he could see a sliver of the Arabian Sea. But he never tried. The view wasn’t the problem — his heart was. It had grown quiet. Not dead, but tired.

He worked in IT support, a job that paid decently but drained him. His life had been reduced to predictable loops: wake, work, eat, scroll, sleep. His friends had slowly drifted away — some married, some abroad, some simply gone. His parents, long passed. His only companion was an old cat named Leo, whose affection was more of a contractual obligation than genuine interest.

Life was flat. Not terrible, just… colorless.

But on the morning of July 4th, something changed.

It was 4:51 AM when Arman’s eyes snapped open. He hadn’t set an alarm. There was no loud noise outside. Nothing had happened. He just… woke up.

And oddly, he didn’t feel tired.

He sat up, confused. The room was quiet. Leo, for once, wasn’t curled up at his feet. The fan above spun lazily, its rhythm steady and hypnotic.

He looked toward the window. Faint light seeped in — not daylight, but something else. Softer. As if the world was breathing before waking.

Something pulled at him. He couldn’t explain it. He stood up, walked to the balcony, and stepped outside barefoot.

The air was unusually cool for a Karachi summer. Crisp, with a salty tang from the sea. The city, always roaring by day, now whispered in its sleep. A distant rickshaw sputtered. A dog barked once, then silence.

And then he saw it.

The horizon was glowing.

A line of molten orange, barely visible behind the black silhouettes of distant buildings. The sky above shifted in color — from navy blue to lavender, then to pink.

Arman stood still, one hand resting on the cold iron railing. His eyes widened.

It was beautiful.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had used that word and meant it.

As the light grew, memories began to stir. He remembered his childhood in Multan, on the roof of his grandparents’ house. He used to wake up before dawn during summer vacations, racing upstairs with a roti in hand, just to sit beside his Dada as the sun climbed over the city.

“Dekho, Arman,” his grandfather would say, pointing. “Zindagi yahaan se shuru hoti hai. Jo suraj ko dekh leta hai na, usse andhera kabhi nahi daraata.”

Arman had forgotten that. Forgotten him. Forgotten himself.

A soft breeze ruffled his hair as the first golden arc of the sun broke through the skyline. It was so slow, so unhurried. The kind of patience he hadn’t felt in years. And yet, the power of it was overwhelming.

The warmth touched his skin, and for the first time in a very long while… Arman cried.

Not the loud, wracking sobs of grief. Just quiet tears, sliding down his cheeks without permission. As if his soul was melting.

That morning, Arman didn’t go back to bed.

He sat on the balcony floor, legs crossed like a child, watching the sunlight stretch across rooftops, windows, trees. The pigeons stirred and took off in synchronized flight. The world began to wake, but Arman remained still.

By 6:30 AM, the city returned to its usual rhythm. Honks, chatter, vendors calling out. But inside Arman, something stayed quiet.

He brewed chai, the way his mother used to make it — more milk, less sugar. He poured it into a chipped mug, then went back to the balcony and watched the day bloom fully.

That evening, for the first time in years, he turned off his phone at 9 PM and set an alarm for 4:45 AM.

The next day, he rose with it again.

And the day after.

And again.

Each morning brought a different sky. Sometimes it was clear and glowing, sometimes shy behind clouds. But always, always it reminded him: the world is alive. And so are you.

He began walking to the beach every weekend before dawn. At first alone, then with Leo in a small backpack he modified for him. There were others there too — silent joggers, fishermen, elderly couples sitting on benches holding hands. Strangers who nodded in quiet recognition. Fellow witnesses of the beginning.

By the end of that month, Arman started painting again.

It had been years. He had studied art in college once, before switching to IT for “job security.” But the sunrises demanded to be remembered. So he painted them. On canvas, in a sketchbook, sometimes even on scrap cardboard. His room soon smelled of oils and turpentine, colors splashed across the floor.

The joy returned in waves. Not all at once. But enough to breathe.

He began talking to people again. Reached out to a cousin he hadn’t spoken to in four years. Replied to a message from an old friend in Dubai. He even went on a coffee date — awkward, but nice.

All because of a sunrise.

One morning in September, Arman met Meher.

She was sitting on the same concrete bench he usually occupied near Clifton beach, sketching the sea with charcoal on a large pad. Her head was covered with a soft gray shawl, her eyes squinting into the sun. She didn’t notice him at first.

He cleared his throat softly. “Beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

She looked up, smiled, and nodded. “Best one this week.”

They didn’t speak much that day. But the next morning, they both returned.

And the next.

And one day, she brought an extra cup of chai. “I thought you might like it,” she said.

They began sharing stories — hers about her father who used to photograph sunrises in Hunza, his about his grandfather’s rooftop rituals. Some mornings they sat in silence, sketching or sipping. Others, they laughed over silly things.

The sun always rose. And so did something between them.

Six months after that first unexpected sunrise, Arman’s life was still not perfect.

His job still drained him, but he had begun taking freelance illustration work on the side. He planned to reduce his hours soon. Leo had gotten a bit older and lazier, but still joined him every morning. His apartment was messier — covered in sketches, brushes, coffee cups — but filled with warmth.

And every morning, he woke up early.

Not because he had to.

But because he wanted to witness the world begin again.

Somewhere deep inside, Arman now believed something sacred:

Sunrise is not just a part of the day.

It’s a reminder that no matter what happened yesterday — the losses, the regrets, the loneliness — the world still offers you a blank canvas every single morning.

And sometimes, that’s all the miracle you need.