He stood up slowly. His joints ached. His eyes were tired. But his chest felt… lighter. Not happy. Not healed. Just honest.
Rahim turned the thought over like a smooth stone. For years, he had measured his worth in how much he could carry for others—his mother’s worry, his brother’s debt, a neighbor’s loneliness, a stranger’s burden. He became soft, yes. But not the way a flower is soft. The way earth is soft after too much rain: saturated, heavy, on the verge of collapsing into mud. Rahim soft - Part 18
He didn’t smile. But he didn’t look away either. He stood up slowly
“You’ve been fighting alone,” he said quietly. “And you’re still standing. That’s not weakness. That’s the quietest kind of strength.” But his chest felt… lighter
He hadn’t slept. Not really. Instead, he had spent the night listening to his own breath, matching it to the rhythm of the rain. And somewhere between the third hour of darkness and the first pale light of dawn, something shifted.