The courtroom doors closed behind them.
Aban walked beside Tooba, carrying the court files. His arm was still in a sling from the accident, but his steps were steady. Tooba was silent, deep in thought, but there was a small glimmer of relief in her eyes.
They reached home.
The apartment felt strangely cold despite the summer heat. As Aban placed the files on the table, Tooba’s phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
She picked it up hesitantly.
“Miss Tooba,” a cold, official voice spoke. “This is from your former news channel’s HR department.”
She already felt her chest tighten.
“We regret to inform you… due to the ongoing controversy and pressure from media sponsors… your appearance in court today has violated the revised neutrality clause of our employee agreement.”
There was a pause.
“You are officially terminated. Please collect your remaining dues next week. Good day.”
Click.
Tooba didn’t say anything. She stood frozen, the phone still against her ear.
Aban watched her closely. “What happened?”
She slowly turned to him, voice dry. “They fired me again. This time officially. No apology… nothing.”
Aban’s face hardened. “Cowards. They fear truth more than lies.”
Tooba gave a faint, tired smile. “It’s not just fear. It’s money. They’re selling silence.”
She walked to the window and looked outside—at the people, the cars, the noise. Everything looked normal. But inside, something had shifted again.
She whispered, mostly to herself, “First they snatched my voice… and now my space.”
Aban stood beside her quietly.
After a pause, he said firmly, “They can take jobs. But not justice.”
She looked at him. He gently added, “And not your courage.”
She nodded slowly, her eyes watery but strong.
“Then let’s finish what we’ve started.”
Aban stood at the apartment door, putting on his coat with one hand. His other arm, still recovering, was gently pressed to his side.
“Tooba, I need to go to the legal office. There’s one last set of proofs I must collect—testimonies from a retired officer,” he explained.
Tooba nodded. She held a small black handbag with her court documents inside.
“I’ll go to the channel office and collect my termination papers,” she said, trying to sound casual, but her voice was tight.
He looked at her for a moment. “Are you sure you want to go alone?”
She smiled faintly. “It’s just papers. I’ve faced worse.”
Aban hesitated. Then he placed his hand gently on her shoulder. “Be careful. And text me the moment you reach.”
She nodded again. “InshaAllah. I’ll be fine.”
---
Outside.
The city was loud, moving fast around her. Tooba stood for a moment near the corner where the office street began. Her scarf fluttered lightly in the wind. Her eyes were sharp, her steps steady.
She crossed the road.
The channel office was just ahead. She could already see the building.
Then—
a sound.
Sharp. Loud. Echoing.
Bang!
The world slowed.
Something hit her shoulder—hot, piercing.
Her breath caught. She stumbled backward. The documents in her hand scattered across the ground.
People screamed.
Someone ran.
Another shot—missed her narrowly.
Tooba dropped to her knees. Her hand clutched her left shoulder, blood soaking through the fabric.
Still—she didn’t faint. She looked up.
Someone was shouting for help. A man rushed to her side. The world blurred around her.
She whispered with her last strength, “Don’t let them take the truth…”
And then her head fell gently to the side.
---
Fade out.
Sirens howled in the distance.
The truth had been shot—but not silenced.
The beeping of machines echoed softly through the room. Tooba lay still on the hospital bed, wrapped in layers of white sheets. Her face was pale, lips slightly parted. A thick bandage was wrapped around her shoulder.
Her eyes were closed.
She hadn’t opened them since she was brought in.
She was in a coma.
Beside her, a nurse adjusted the drip and quietly walked out. No one spoke inside. Only the soft rhythm of the machines reminded the world she was still fighting.
---
Outside the ICU Room – Same Time
Aban stood near the glass, hands folded tightly across his chest, his injured arm resting in a sling. His eyes were bloodshot—not from sleep, but from the pain of helplessness. His shirt was still stained with her blood, but he hadn’t noticed.
He had been standing there for hours.
One of the nurses approached, “You should sit, sir. Or at least eat something.”
He shook his head slowly. “Not until she wakes up.”
The nurse gave him a sympathetic look and left.
He leaned against the wall, his head falling back, eyes staring at the ceiling. He whispered under his breath, “Ya Allah... I brought her into this. Give me her pain. Let her live.”
He closed his eyes. A tear escaped.
Then he looked back at her through the glass. She was there—but so far away.
And he was tired.
Tired of running.
Tired of courts.
Tired of fear.
But he wasn’t tired of her.
Not now. Not ever.
His phone buzzed. Another call from the lawyer’s office. Another message from the security agency. But he ignored them all.
He waited.
For a blink.
A whisper.
A miracle.
Scene: Hospital TV Room – Late Evening
A dull light flickered from the ceiling. Aban stood by the window, staring out at the darkening sky, his face shadowed by sleepless nights. The low hum of the news broadcast played behind him.
On the hospital TV, a confident voice announced:
“Breaking News: The honorable court has declared the federal minister not guilty in the recent murder case. Due to lack of direct evidence and the absence of the defense lawyer in today’s final hearing, the case stands closed. The minister was respectfully escorted from court amidst cheers from his supporters...”
Aban turned slowly, his jaw clenched as he watched the screen. A clip showed the minister smiling, waving to reporters, full of arrogance and power. Another anchor added:
“The defense failed to appear in court today, which weakened the case severely. Meanwhile, the anchor who brought the case to light, Tooba Rehman, remains hospitalized after an unknown shooting incident.”
A quiet shuffle of footsteps. The nurse entered, gently adjusting Tooba’s IV. She glanced at the TV and then at Aban.
“I’m sorry, sir...” she said, carefully, “This isn’t fair.”
Aban didn’t reply at first. His eyes stayed locked on the TV. Then, in a low, almost bitter voice, he finally spoke:
“Power always wins.”
He shook his head slowly.
“No matter the truth... no matter the blood... Power wins in the end.”
The nurse sighed.
“But not always. Sometimes the weak win too.”
Aban looked at Tooba’s still face, pale but alive.
“I gave up the court to stay beside her,” he whispered.
“But maybe... maybe truth needs sacrifice. Not just logic. Not just law.”
The nurse gave a small, hopeful smile.
“She’d be proud of you.”
He didn’t answer.
He just sat down beside Tooba, gently taking her hand once again.
Outside, the night fell heavier.
But inside that hospital room, one man still held onto hope—
even if justice had just lost its trial.
Scene: Airport – Early Morning, Milan, Italy
The wheels of the private air ambulance touched down softly on the tarmac of Milan Malpensa Airport. The morning sky was cold and grey, echoing the silence inside the plane. Tooba lay unconscious, machines softly beeping beside her, eyes closed as though only asleep.
Aban sat near her stretcher, his suit crumpled, beard slightly overgrown, eyes hollow from weeks of endless trials, both legal and emotional. He held her hand, fingers gently wrapped around hers like he was still protecting her from the world.
A nurse adjusted Tooba’s oxygen mask as they prepared to disembark. A paramedic nodded to Aban, "Ready, sir. The ambulance is waiting."
Aban stood slowly. His eyes never left her face.
“She’s home now,” he whispered.
---
Scene: Milan Private Hospital – Later That Day
Inside the quiet, white room, the soft sound of Italian evening traffic buzzed faintly through the closed window. Machines monitored Tooba’s every breath. Nurses moved quietly around her, checking vitals and replacing IV drips.
Aban stood near the window, overlooking the city skyline. It was the same city they had once dreamed of walking through together freely—now she returned to it on a stretcher.
Doctor Romano entered the room, scanning the chart.
“She’s stable. But still unresponsive,” he said gently.
Aban nodded.
“Just keep her alive,” he replied.
“I’ll do the rest.”
He walked over, pulled a chair close to her bed, and sat down. Slowly, he began speaking—softly, like a prayer.
“We left everything behind, Tooba. The case, the lies, the country that broke you. But I brought you here... because you deserve to be safe. Even if you don’t wake up. I will still fight... for you.”
His voice cracked at the end, but he didn’t cry.
Because he knew now—this wasn’t just a battle of courts and cameras.
It was a battle of time, truth... and loyalty.
And he wasn’t ready to lose.
It was a quiet afternoon in Tooba’s hospital room. The sunlight filtered through sheer curtains, casting soft golden lines across her motionless face. Monitors beeped steadily — a slow, rhythmic sound that had become Aban’s new reality.
Aban sat beside her, gently wiping her hand with a warm cloth. He spoke softly to her like always, voice low and kind.
“You know, this room is warmer than the one in London. The nurses here smile more too... maybe they remind me of you. Kind. Gentle. Brave.”
He adjusted the corner of her blanket, stood to pour himself a glass of water, and reached for the remote to turn on the small hospital TV mounted on the wall.
The Italian news was on, but within seconds, it switched to breaking international coverage in English:
> “Breaking News: London's Interior Minister, who was recently cleared of all charges, has reportedly died in a mysterious highway crash just outside the city.”
Aban froze, glass in mid-air.
> “According to eyewitnesses, the car lost control after being followed by an unknown vehicle. The crash has reignited public criticism over the minister’s recent acquittal and the handling of the controversial case involving the Italian-Pakistani journalist, Tooba Saleem.”
The screen showed chaotic footage from the crash site. Then shifted to footage of London protests — people shouting, holding signs:
> “JUSTICE DELAYED, JUSTICE DENIED”
“WHO KILLED THE TRUTH?”
“TOOBA WAS RIGHT!”
Aban lowered the glass slowly, eyes locked on the screen.
Behind him, the nurse entered quietly to check Tooba’s IV. She noticed the tension on his face.
“Is everything okay, Signore Aban?” she asked in a gentle Italian accent.
He didn’t answer right away. His eyes lingered on the crowds rallying outside British parliament, the angry voices, the signs, the chants. A truth that once felt buried was now rising like a tide.
Finally, he exhaled, gaze steady but filled with quiet fire.
“Power always wins... until people remember they have power too.”
The nurse nodded quietly, not fully understanding, but sensing the weight in his voice.
Aban looked back at Tooba, the faintest glimmer of hope flickering in his tired eyes.
“Maybe... you’ve already won.”
The air was cool, carrying the faint hum of the hospital garden fountain outside. Leaves rustled gently in the wind, and the scent of lavender drifted in through the half-open window.
Tooba lay still, eyes closed, face pale but peaceful. The machines beside her hummed — steady, reliable, alive.
Aban sat at her side, as always. But today, something was different.
He had trimmed his beard, changed from his usual worn-out jacket into a clean white shirt. He held a journal in one hand, her fingers in the other.
“I brought your notebook,” he said softly. “The one you wrote your first article drafts in. I re-read them all. You never wrote to be seen... you wrote so people wouldn’t stay blind.”
He opened it to a page — one she had scribbled on during a night full of ideas, in blue ink and crooked lines:
> “Truth doesn’t scream. It stands. Quiet. Patient. And someday, it rises.”
He looked up at her — silent, unmoving. Then smiled faintly, but his eyes were wet.
“You’re rising, Tooba. You’re already rising in them... in those people protesting, in those questions being asked in parliaments, in the girls holding signs with your name...”
The nurse came in briefly, adjusted her IV, nodded silently to Aban, and left without a word — as if understanding the quiet reverence of the moment.
Aban stood, leaned forward, and gently kissed her forehead.
“And I’ll wait. Even if it takes years... I’ll be here. When your eyes open.”
Outside, in the hospital garden, a little girl released a paper bird into the wind. It floated, caught by the breeze, and soared upward — light, silent, determined.
Inside the room, Tooba’s hand twitched — just the slightest flicker of a finger.
Aban didn’t notice.
But the monitor beeped once — slightly faster.
And the light on her face glowed just a little warmer than before.
Fade to black.
Text on screen:
“Truth never dies. It waits. And someday, it speaks again.”
She moved little finger of the foot
The sign of recovery
He noticed and went out to call for doctor
After he went out she found her self opening eyes slowly
– The End (or perhaps, the beginning...)
