*Chapter 6*
*The Twins 2*
3 Years Later.
Three years had passed since the tragic accident that tore Zainab, Zara, Lukman, and Mubarak apart.
Life had not been kind to either Zainab or Lukman.
Even after all this time, some wounds remained as raw as they were on the first day. Lukman, more than anyone else, refused to give up the search for Zara. The family held endless prayer gatherings, checked hospitals and shelters, clung to every rumor and lead—but Zara remained missing. As the days turned into months and years, hope began to wear thin.
Lukman's life slowly unraveled. Though he still worked, he was no longer the man he used to be. He looked weary, his frame leaner, a beard grown out in neglect. It was said he barely took care of himself anymore, consumed by guilt, loss, and longing.
As for Zainab—she had is yet to recovered from losing Mubarak. Her family had tried everything to help her move on, but nothing worked. Mubarak wasn't just her husband; he had become her everything in the short span of seven months they have been together. Though she had been reluctant at first, resisting the marriage, she had eventually fallen deeply in love with him.
Now, at twenty-one years old, Zainab was a beautiful, intelligent young woman—but one with broken edges. Her eyes carried stories of love lost and pain endured.
This morning, she lay quietly, her head resting against a pillow as memories of Mubarak drifted through her mind. She thought about the way he smiled, the way he teased her, the comfort of his arms around her. It still felt unreal that he was gone. And Zara—her twin by blood and soul—was nowhere to be found.
"Mummy…"
A soft voice pulled her out of her thoughts. Zainab sat up quickly, turning to see her three-year-old daughter, Afna, standing at the door.
Born just five months after the accident, Afna was her miracle—her light in the darkness. The pregnancy had been a difficult one, marked by overwhelming grief, but somehow Zainab had made it through. People often said Afna looked like both her and Mubarak, and every time she saw her daughter's face, it stirred something deep inside her.
Afna had become her reason. Her strength. The reason she kept going despite it all.
"Come to Mommy, sweetheart," Zainab called out softly, her tone laced with tenderness.
Afna's face instantly brightened. Her tiny feet pattered eagerly across the cool tiles as she ran toward her mother, her eyes sparkling with joy. Zainab crouched to catch her, scooping her into a warm embrace. She gently ran her fingers through the little girl's long, jet-black hair—so soft, so familiar. Just like hers.
They lingered in that embrace for a while—just mother and daughter, wrapped in the comfort of each other. But soon, the morning pressed on, and Zainab began getting them both ready for the day.
She helped Afna into her crisp white and sky-blue school uniform, smoothing out the creases and adjusting the little hijab neatly around her head. As always, Afna looked like a tiny princess, wide-eyed and cheerful.
For herself, Zainab chose something bold yet graceful—a flowy multicolored white and pink skirt with a matching shirt layered under a stylish top. Her pink veil, carefully rolled and pinned, framed her face perfectly. She looked radiant, effortlessly blending elegance with modesty. No matter how tough life had been, Zainab's grace never seemed to waver. She had that kind of beauty—the kind that deepened through trials.
It had been just a few months since she'd completed her degree. The result wasn't what her brothers had hoped for, but they had quietly accepted it. Maybe they understood—grief had taken its toll on her. Still, they wanted her to rise again. To rebuild. To move forward, one step at a time.
And today, she was ready to try. She planned to visit Lukman's company—the very one he and Mubarak had once poured their dreams into. She didn't know what awaited her thier.
These days, she was living with her brother Alamin and his wife, Atika. Their home felt easier to breathe in—no heavy silences, no cold stares. She had spent some time at Yusuf's place after Mubarak's death, but it hadn't lasted. The constant friction, the lack of understanding—it had chipped away at her even more.
Zainab had changed. Grief had reshaped her, made her quieter, more reflective. Yusuf never seemed to know what to do with this new version of her. And she'd grown tired of trying to explain.
She stepped into the dining room, not expecting much—but the sight made her pause.
The whole family was gathered.
Hafsat and Yusuf sat at the table with their sons, Abdulkareem—tall for his ten years—and baby Abdulhameed on Hafsat's lap, giggling with a mouthful of banana. Alamin was at the head of the table, and Atika was helping little Sulaiman balance a cup of milk.
The soft murmur of conversation and the sound of spoons clinking against plates filled the air. It was a rare moment of warmth.
"Assalamu alaikum," Zainab greeted, her voice gentle but steady.
"Wa alaikumus salam," came the familiar replies.
"You're up," Atika said with a kind smile. "We almost came to wake you, but you looked like you needed the rest."
Zainab nodded, thankful. This house didn't demand explanations. Here, she could just be.
Just then, Hafsat leaned forward with a grin and scooped Afna into her arms, her fingers dancing over the little girl's tummy in playful tickles.
"My darling niece—from my favorite cousin," she cooed, planting a kiss on Afna's cheek.
It was a phrase she used often, a gentle way of keeping Mubarak's memory alive in the most innocent moments.
Zainab smiled, but the edges of it trembled slightly. Each reference to Mubarak—no matter how sweet or casual—brushed against a wound that hadn't quite healed. But she stayed composed, as always, letting the moment pass without a word.
Her gaze shifted—and met Yusuf's.
He was watching her, his face calm but unreadable, his eyes holding that familiar, quiet intensity she could never quite decipher.
Zainab stepped closer and eased into the seat beside him, sensing the weight of words left unspoken.
"What is it this time, brother?" she asked, her voice soft—half teasing, half weary.
"I heard you want to start working at Lukman's company," Yusuf said, turning to Zainab with a probing tone.
"Yes, brother," she replied simply.
His eyes narrowed slightly. "Is it because of Mubarak? Trying to carry on his legacy?"
Zainab didn't answer. Her silence, though quiet, spoke volumes—and only deepened Yusuf's suspicions.
He dropped the spoon in his hand with a soft clink against the plate. "Zainab, how old are you now?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.
She didn't respond. There was no need to.
"When will you finally move on from that man?" he asked, not unkindly, but with a frustration that had long been simmering. "You can pray for him all you want—but don't wrap your whole life around memories of him. I don't want you doing something that'll keep you stuck in the past. Afterall, How can two sad people run a company together?"
Zainab knew who he meant—herself and Lukman. Both still grieving in their own quiet ways.
This—this constant questioning, this unrelenting push to "move on"—was exactly why she hadn't wanted to keep living under Yusuf's roof. He often came to talk to her, sometimes with good intentions, but most times offering unsolicited thoughts she didn't have the energy to argue with.
"Speaking of the devil," Alamin said dryly, eyes flicking toward the hallway.
Just then, Lukman walked in—dressed sharply in his office attire. His now looks beard trimmed just lightly, his lean frame straight, and despite the quiet sorrow that clung to him, he still carried an effortless air of grace.
"We were just talking about you," Yusuf said.
Lukman offered a polite nod in response, barely acknowledging them beyond what courtesy required.
He had been living with them at Alamin's house for the past three years. They hadn't wanted him to live alone—not after everything. Even now, with the noise of a full house around him, they all wondered how someone could seem so alone.
Breakfast continued, though the air was anything but light. Yusuf, never one to hold back, now shifted his attention to Lukman—who, unlike Zainab, barely gave his lectures the dignity of a response.
"You see, that's my issue with him," Yusuf said. "At least Zainab listens. Lukman doesn't even pretend to care."
Alamin chimed in, his tone gentler but still firm. "My problem with Lukman is that he seems to lack tawakkul," he said. "You should leave your affairs to Allah. No soul is burdened beyond what it can bear, remember?"
Lukman remained quiet, his expression unreadable. As always, he said nothing.
When breakfast ended, Zainab and Lukman rose to leave, but Yusuf raised a hand to stop them. "Wait. Don't go yet. Alamin and I need to talk to you both."
The rest of the family cleared out, leaving only the four of them behind.
Yusuf began. "You know our usual conversation… it's been three years now."
He looked at Zainab first. "You're still very young. And you, Lukman… are you planning to spend the rest of your life mourning the past? Do you even believe she's still alive? Finding your wife might not mean she's still living, you know."
Zainab and Lukman exchanged a look. They had heard this countless times. For the past two years, Yusuf had circled back to this same topic, always pushing them to move on, to start anew.
"Zainab," Yusuf continued, "several suitors have shown interest in you. Some even came to me directly. Among them is my brother-in-law, Jamal. He's been waiting patiently, wanting your hand for years now. So when will you choose someone? Or should I pick one for you myself?"
Zainab sat still, saying nothing.
"And you, Lukman," Alamin added, "I could arrange a meeting for you—with women of good character. You can choose whoever suits you, if Allah wills."
At that, Lukman stood abruptly. "I'll be heading to work," he said coldly, turning away just like he always did whenever this topic surfaced.
Zainab followed suit, rising from her seat. "Lukman will be giving me a lift," she said, picking up Afna and her school lunchbox without sparing her brothers another glance.
"Zainab, don't walk away from us," Yusuf called after her, but she was already out of reach.
"You'll come back to meet us eventually," Alamin said after her, but she was gone—Afna clutched tightly in her arms.
Yusuf shook his head. "You've spoiled her, Alamin. Just watch—she'll be back at my house soon enough. That's where she'll learn some manners."
Lukman drove Zainab and Afna to the nursery school, where Afna was enrolled in Nursery 1. This was the first time Lukman take them though Zainab found herself silently questioning why he was so reluctant about it. He had been complaining the entire ride, as if it were an inconvenience for him to take the short trip with them.
Zainab couldn't understand why he had a problem with it. After all, they were both headed to the office afterward, and it wasn't like this was a regular occurrence. Over the past three years, they had learned that Lukman didn't appreciate anyone interfering in his life. He seemed to resist any attempt to step into his world. Zainab wondered if this was simply his nature or if it was something triggered by the grief he carried. How did Zara put up with this when she was around?
Zainab's thoughts drifted to Mubarak. He would have never treated her Zara this way. Mubarak was never the type to complain or shut people out. He cared for everyone in his life, and that was the difference she felt now. Lukman, on the other hand, appeared to live in a world that was consumed by Zara's memory. Even when he played with Afna, he would casually refer to her as "Zara's niece," as though anyone's existence was merely a part of Zara's story, not her thier own.
They arrived at the school, and Zainab helped Afna out of the car with a smile, sending her off with a gentle hug. As she adjusted her seatbelt after getting back into the car, she caught a glimpse of something—or someone—that made her pause.
A woman, dressed in a flowing light blue and orange gown, her orange veil gracefully framing her face, waved to two children—a boy and a girl. She turned toward them, and despite the distance, Zainab immediately recognized her. The face was unmistakable.
Without thinking, Zainab called out, "Lukman!"
He didn't respond, but she he too, was staring. She watched as the woman approached a sleek black car, about to get in. Zainab's heart raced as she realized it all.
"Zara…".