The office lights were off.
Curtains were closed.
The studio was quiet.
Julia sat behind her desk, holding a paper in her hand. Her face was pale. Her hands were shaking.
Tooba stood near the door, calm but tired. Her eyes showed she hadn’t slept.
Julia looked up at her.
"Sit down, Tooba," she said.
Tooba sat.
Julia placed the paper in front of her.
It was a statement.
Written in big, bold letters:
"I made a mistake. The video was edited. I am sorry."
Tooba looked at it.
She didn’t touch it.
Julia leaned forward.
"Say this on the next show. Read it. That’s all."
Tooba stayed silent.
"You will say it, right?"
"No," Tooba said softly.
Julia stood up suddenly.
"You have to!" she shouted.
"Do you even know what you’ve done? This is not just a man. He is a minister! His people are powerful!"
Tooba looked at her, but her face didn’t change.
Julia’s eyes filled with fear.
"They will kill us, Tooba. You, me, the whole team. Please... Please just say you’re sorry. Say it was fake."
Tooba stood up now.
"I can’t lie," she said. Her voice was quiet but strong.
"Even if they kill me... I won’t take the truth back."
Julia hit the desk hard.
"Are you crazy?! This is not a movie! This is real life!"
"I know," Tooba replied.
"But real life needs real courage."
Julia’s voice broke.
"Please... Please don’t do this. I’ve built this channel with my blood. I’ve protected my team for years."
"I’m protecting something too," Tooba said, eyes firm.
"The truth."
She turned and walked toward the door.
Julia watched her go, tears in her eyes, fear on her face.
Tooba did not look back.
The next morning was grey.
The sky had no sun. Clouds covered everything.
Tooba woke up early. Her eyes were heavy, but her heart was light. She had spoken the truth. She had done her job.
She made tea and opened her laptop. Her show was supposed to air today. She smiled softly, waiting.
But when the TV turned on—
She froze.
It was not her.
Another woman was sitting in her place.
A new anchor.
Wearing bright makeup.
Smiling too much.
Too confident.
Too fake.
And then the words came out:
> "Good morning, dear viewers. Today we want to start with something very important. A few days ago, one of our anchors—Tooba—showed a video that caused great noise in the media."
The anchor paused and gave a small fake laugh.
> "We now want to say very clearly... the video was edited. It was a mistake. Our team trusted the wrong source. And for that, we are deeply sorry."
Tooba dropped her teacup.
It shattered on the floor.
The sound didn’t even move her.
She just sat.
Watching.
Listening.
> "Our channel respects the government and always supports truth with peace. We are thankful to the minister and his team for their patience."
> "We have removed Tooba from the channel. We hope she finds peace in her next journey."
That was it.
No truth.
No support.
Just lies.
Just silence.
Just fear.
---
Far away, in Italy
Tooba’s family was watching too.
Her mother covered her mouth in shock.
Her younger brother turned off the TV angrily.
Her sister cried quietly.
And in the middle of all, Aaban — her husband by Nikah — just stared.
His eyes were full of questions.
His voice was quiet.
“She... didn’t lie,” he said.
“I know her. She can’t lie.”
---
Back in Tooba’s Room
She walked slowly to the window.
She saw people laughing on the streets.
Cars going fast.
Birds flying.
But inside her?
A storm.
She sat down and opened her phone.
She went to her gallery.
The video was still there.
The truth was still alive.
She whispered under her breath:
> “They may throw me out…
But they can’t throw out the truth.”
She pressed her forehead to the wall.
Tears came, finally.
But her faith stayed.
> “O Allah… if I lose the world for Your truth… let it be.
But don’t let the liars win.”
—
Tooba sat on the floor, near the table. Her eyes were tired. She had not slept. The house was silent. Only the small sound of the fridge filled the room.
Her phone rang. It was Julia.
Tooba took the call. "Hello?"
Julia’s voice was cold now. Not like a friend. Not like someone who cared.
"Tooba," she said sharply, "you need to leave the house."
Tooba frowned. "Why?"
"I talked to the board today," Julia said fast. "They are not happy. The police came to ask questions. There are people outside asking for you. Some are angry. Some are dangerous."
Tooba stayed silent.
Julia continued, "This house belongs to the channel. It is under my name. I don’t want any trouble. I have a family. I have a job. Please... just leave."
Tooba stood up slowly. Her voice calm. "So... you want me to leave because you are scared?"
Julia didn't reply for a moment.
Then she said, "Yes, Tooba. I am scared. You should be too."
Tooba took a deep breath. "I thought this place was for protection."
"It was," Julia said, "But now it's risk. I cannot risk my career or my life. I’m sorry."
"Where do you want me to go?" Tooba asked softly.
"Anywhere. But not here," Julia replied. "Please leave by morning."
Tooba didn’t say anything. She looked around the small room. Her clothes. Her bag. Her laptop. Her truth.
Julia said one last thing before cutting the call, "You chose to fight. Now fight alone."
The call ended.
Tooba stared at the screen for a moment.
Then she whispered to herself,
"I will fight. Alone is okay... if it’s for truth."
—
Tooba tightened her scarf and glanced around the room one last time. The silence of early morning filled the air. Her bags were packed. Her heart was heavy. She was about to leave everything behind.
She reached for the door… and slowly opened it.
There, standing quietly — with the calm of someone who had already decided to protect her at all costs — was Aban.
He looked at her with a small smile and said lightly,
"How hard it is to enter this place. But my training worked. I climbed the wall easily."
He gave a short laugh, like everything was normal, like danger didn’t exist.
Tooba stared at him, shocked… but something in her chest finally relaxed.
He was here.
And somehow, that meant… maybe nothing bad could happen now.
Aban looked down at the bags beside her.
"You’re ready?"
She nodded, not saying a word.
Without asking anything more, he stepped inside, picked up the bags, and turned.
"Let’s go."
They walked side by side in silence, the air cool and still. The streets were empty. No noise, no questions — just quiet footsteps and a beating heart that slowly steadied in his presence.
They got into the car. Aban opened the passenger side for her. Once she sat, he started the engine and looked over at her.
Tooba finally spoke. Her voice was low, but steady.
"I didn’t want to drag you into this…"
"You didn’t drag me," Aban replied gently. "I came."
She looked away, her fingers tightening around the edge of her shawl.
"I saw something I wasn’t supposed to. A murder. I was only at the petrol pump for a few minutes. But I saw everything."
Aban didn’t interrupt.
"I took the video. I saved it. Sent it to my laptop, tablet… even shared it with someone I trusted."
She took a breath.
"Then… the threats came. Julia asked me to stay silent. Then she told me to lie. And then I was fired."
Aban gripped the wheel tighter but said nothing. His silence wasn’t empty — it was full of listening.
"They gave my show to someone else. And now they’re calling me a liar on national TV."
Tears welled up in her eyes, but she blinked them away.
"Julia asked me to leave the safehouse too. She’s afraid. I don’t blame her."
"You’re not alone anymore," Aban said firmly. "I’m here. I’m with you."
She looked at him — truly looked — and for the first time in days, her heart whispered:
Safe.
They drove through the empty roads as the sky began to light up.
And in the quiet, Tooba began to speak — everything. Every detail. Every fear. Every truth.
And Aban… he listened to every word.
The car stopped in front of an old double-storey house, faded walls, a dying bougainvillea crawling up the side. Tooba stared at the nameplate. Her heart thudded.
Inside that house lived the family of the man who was murdered.
She turned to Aban. “What if they don’t listen?”
“We’re not here to make them listen,” Aban replied gently. “We’re here to offer the truth.”
He rang the bell.
Moments passed.
Then the door opened — a woman in her early thirties, dressed neatly, eyes sharp, cold. Her expression stiffened when she saw them.
"Who are you?" she asked bluntly.
“We want to speak to you about your husband,” Aban said with quiet respect.
The woman’s lips tightened. Her voice turned harsh.
“We don’t want justice. We need nothing. Just leave.”
Tooba’s lips parted. “Please, if you just let us explain—”
“We don’t want to hear anything!” she snapped, stepping back and beginning to shut the door.
But then, a quiet voice came from inside.
“Let them come in.”
An old woman, wrapped in a chadar, slowly walked into view — frail, eyes sunken from age and grief. Her voice was calm, but firm.
“They’ve come this far. Let them speak.”
The young widow hesitated, then scoffed and walked away wordlessly, leaving the door half-open.
Aban and Tooba entered.
The room smelled of silence — old wood, dried flowers, and something deeper… the absence of someone who should’ve still been alive.
The mother sat down slowly on the sofa. Her hands trembled a little, but her gaze was steady.
“Speak.”
Aban began softly. “I’m Aban. I’m a lawyer. And this is Tooba, my wife. She’s a journalist.”
Tooba nodded, clutching the edge of her dupatta. “I was at the petrol station… I saw the murder. I recorded it.”
The mother’s expression didn’t change — but her knuckles clenched.
“My son died. No one told us anything except he was shot during some ‘encounter’,” she said bitterly.
Aban leaned forward, his tone low and respectful.
“Your son was targeted. By a minister. Tooba saw it with her own eyes. She shared the video. And now they’re after her.”
The widow — standing behind the sofa with folded arms — finally spoke.
“Enough. I told you, we don’t need justice. What will it bring? My husband won’t come back.”
Tooba looked at her, surprised by her coldness.
“You don’t want justice for him?” she asked, softly.
The woman’s eyes turned sharp.
“I want peace. I have children to raise. I don’t want my house raided. I don’t want threats. I don’t want bullets on my doorstep.”
“And you want his blood to go unaccounted?” Aban asked quietly.
The mother lifted her hand to stop the conversation. “Enough. Let me speak to them alone.”
The daughter-in-law rolled her eyes and walked off into the next room without a word.
Once she was gone, the mother’s voice softened — but tears gathered in her eyes.
“She wasn’t always like this. But since his death, she’s been cold. She just wants to survive.”
Tooba leaned forward. “We don’t want to bring chaos to your home. But your son was innocent. We want to take his truth to court.”
“I’m afraid,” the mother admitted, her voice trembling. “But… not more than I am tired. Tired of burying truth. Tired of pretending he died like just another man.”
Aban nodded slowly. “If you let me, I’ll fight this case. I’ll take his name to the court. And I promise, I will fight till the last breath.”
The mother’s tears finally rolled down.
She didn’t answer immediately. But her silence… wasn’t rejection anymore.
Tooba placed her hand over hers. “Please. Let’s do this. Together.”
The mother finally looked up.
“If you have the courage to speak… then I will find the courage to stand with you.”
Tooba exhaled — deeply.
And that’s how the fight began again.
---
