One Week Later
Ahad's POV
It had been one week since we found the book in the old section of the library — the book that changed everything. A week of sleepless curiosity, hushed page turns beneath bedsheets, and the haunting weight of ink penned in 1857.
But this morning, the ghost of the past faded under the very real shout of my mother.
> "Ahad! Alarm baj raha hai! Uth jao, you'll be late!"
My hand reached out instinctively, smacking the snooze button for the third time. I groaned into my pillow. My alarm blared again like it had a personal vendetta.
> "Coming, Ammi!" I called out, dragging myself up, hair in all directions.
In the bathroom mirror, I looked exactly how I felt — mildly betrayed by sleep.
As I brushed my teeth, my mind wandered back to a silly conversation Iman and I had three years ago when we were thirteen. She had asked me if boys ever thought about how toothbrushes must feel being shoved into people's mouths every morning. I had stared at her like she was an alien, and then we both laughed for five straight minutes.
I found myself grinning now, toothpaste foam escaping the corner of my lips. Same old Iman.
After throwing on my uniform, half-pressing my shirt with one palm, and gulping down chai, I grabbed my backpack and headed for the door. My bicycle waited loyally against the gate.
The air outside was crisp. Morning traffic hadn't yet thickened. I pedaled through the narrow streets of Vasco like muscle memory — left at the tea stall, down the slope by the masjid, and finally toward the bypass near the bookstore, our unofficial meeting spot.
She was already there.
Standing by the little bookstore that never really opened on time, Iman leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. Her bag had already slipped halfway down her shoulder. A classic image of early morning irritation.
"You're late," she said, narrowing her eyes.
"I'm three minutes early," I shot back, parking my cycle.
"Which is late by my standards."
"You don't have standards. You have threats."
She rolled her eyes dramatically and turned without another word. But I caught the smile that almost betrayed her. We began walking side by side toward school — as always.
The street gradually got louder as more students joined the morning crowd. Familiar faces. Some yawning, some laughing.
As we reached St. Paul's Academy, the giant white gates stood open, the security guard nodding as we passed. The courtyard bustled with half-asleep teens and the jingling bells of a cycle bell or two.
"Hey, they've posted something on the notice board," Zaid called out, jogging up.
Turns out Miss Brigainza, our form teacher, had decided to redo the seating arrangements. She stood at the front of Class 10-B, clipboard in hand, commanding authority with her tall frame and peacock blue saree.
"Co-ed seating is not a crime, children," she began, eyes twinkling. "In fact, it promotes mutual respect, academic balance, and less chatter — ideally."
We groaned. She smirked.
One by one she began assigning names. I wasn't paying much attention until—
"Ahad — front row, window side. Suhail — behind Ahad. Iman — beside Suhail."
My eyes widened. I looked back slowly.
She just raised her eyebrows as if to say, "Deal with it."
Suhail grinned like he'd just won a lottery of chaos.
"You're doomed," I whispered. "She kicks chairs."
"Only when annoyed," Iman added sweetly, settling me.
As I sat down, I couldn't help but smile.
A week had passed since we touched the world of Arav and Noor Jahan. But here, in our small present-day world, where chalk dust mixed with sunlight, Iman still sat behind me — a little unpredictable, completely unreadable, and entirely mine to annoy.
The bell rang, and just like that, another day had begun.