Title – Whispers Beneath the Moonlight
The monastery stood silent now. Its once-hallowed halls, echoing with chants and battles, now cradled only the whisper of wind and fallen prayers. Zahira stood quietly among the stone walls, where graves had been dug with reverence. The monks and the old Father — once strangers, now martyrs — lay beneath the earth.
"We owe them our peace," Zahira whispered, placing white flowers over each mound. "They protected us… our baby."
Aryan stood beside her, hand gently wrapped around hers. But unlike the others, he carried a truth no one else knew.
Zahira — no, Zahra — had killed them all.
In that final battle, when the sacred blade met the corrupted spirit, Zahira had drawn upon Zahra's full darkness to win. But in doing so, a piece of Zahra's spirit had returned to her — dormant, yet waiting. Aryan had seen it in her eyes. But he'd buried the truth in silence, just like the monks before him. Some things were too painful to speak aloud.
After the burial, the group returned home, hearts heavy but spirits calm. The world felt still. Safe. Finally.
Days passed.
Elyas and Sajiya, having survived the horrors together, found a new closeness. It didn't take long before they decided to marry. The house echoed with laughter again, with the soft clinking of tea cups and whispered planning of ceremonies.
Meanwhile, Aryan and Zahira began preparing for their baby's arrival. They repainted a spare room — pale yellow and blue — filling it with soft toys, fluffy pillows, and a wooden crib Aryan assembled with his own hands.
Zahira stood in the middle of the room one evening, her hand over her stomach, smiling.
"It's peaceful now, isn't it?" she asked.
Aryan came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. "It is. Because you made it that way."
She leaned back into him, and for a moment, everything felt whole.
But something subtle had changed.
Zahira grew more distant during the evenings. She would stare at walls longer, get irritated over small things, or retreat alone to the nursery. Aryan noticed the shadows under her eyes. The strange silences.
He told himself she was just tired. Pregnancy, after all, was no easy journey.
Until one night.
He woke in the middle of the night to an empty bed.
"Zahira?"
No reply.
He got up, checked the bathroom, the kitchen, the nursery.
Nothing.
Worried, he climbed to the rooftop.
There she was.
Standing barefoot in her thin nightdress, arms wrapped around herself, eyes lifted to the full moon.
She was humming a lullaby.
The same melody Zahra once sang in the spirit realm.
Aryan froze, heart racing. "Zahira… it's cold. Come inside."
She turned slowly.
Her eyes were unblinking, her smile calm — too calm.
Then suddenly, she walked up to him and threw her arms around his chest, hugging him tight — so tight he could feel her heartbeat against his.
"You are mine, Aryan," she whispered against his chest. "Only mine. No one can have you. Ever."
He gently stroked her hair, voice soft. "I'm yours, always. But let's go inside? You'll get sick out here."
For a long pause, she said nothing… then loosened her grip and pulled back, her expression returning to its usual warmth.
"I'm sorry. I must've scared you."
He smiled. "Maybe a little. But I'd rather be scared with you than safe without you."
She laughed softly, cupped his face, and kissed his forehead. "Then let's go inside."
---
The next morning, the air smelled of fresh coffee and cinnamon.
Zahira stood in the kitchen, humming, back to her usual self — or so it seemed.
They got ready for work. Aryan left a little early for a client meeting. Zahira promised to join later.
When she arrived at the office, the warmth of the morning shattered.
Across the lobby, she saw Aryan shaking hands with a female client — young, elegant, laughing softly as they spoke.
Zahira's breath hitched.
A sharp twist tightened in her chest. Her smile faded. Her hand clenched into a fist.
As the woman turned, Zahira "accidentally" bumped into her — enough to startle but not hurt.
"Oh! I'm so sorry," Zahira gasped. "My sandal slipped!"
The woman blinked, steadying herself. "It's okay. Are you alright?"
Zahira held her stomach. "I… I think I feel a little pain. Aryan… can you come with me to the hospital?"
Aryan immediately turned to his client. "I'm sorry — we'll reschedule. My wife's pregnant."
They left, but the air in the car was tense.
Zahira sat silently until they were halfway across the road.
Then, softly, almost like a child sulking, she asked, "Why were you smiling like that with her?"
Aryan glanced at her, surprised. "What?"
"She was too close to you."
"She's just a client, Zahira."
"But I don't like it. You belong to me."
Aryan reached for her hand. "And I am yours. No one can ever change that."
She didn't speak again. Just stared out the window.
That night, Aryan gently held Zahira's hand and said, "I'm sorry if I made you feel like you weren't enough. You're the only one I see."
Zahira looked at him with softened eyes. "I'm scared, Aryan… scared that something inside me might hurt the people I love."
He smiled, cupping her face. "Then we'll fight it together. Like we always have."
They sat on the edge of the bed, wrapped in each other's warmth, and talked the entire night—about the baby, their future, how they would raise their child, and the kind of home they wanted to build. With every word, their bond grew deeper, the shadows of Zahra's essence fading with each shared dream.
They didn't even realize the time until the first light of dawn crept in through the curtains. The peaceful call of the early morning azaan echoed from the nearby mosque.
Suddenly, Zahira stood up in a rush, eyes wide.
"What happened?" Aryan asked, confused.
"My headphones!" she said quickly, almost in a whisper, as she started searching around the room.
Aryan watched her, puzzled. "Why would you need them right now?"
But Zahira didn't answer—her movements were quick, distracted, almost nervous. Something had shifted.
To be continued...