15th August, 2018

Shumail sat by the window of the cozy little coffee shop, his hands wrapped tightly around a steaming mug of strong black coffee. Outside, a soft white velvet carpet of snow blanketed the streets, transforming the world into a picture-perfect winter postcard. The glass in front of him was fogged slightly with condensation, and he leaned forward, exhaling slowly as the warmth of the mug seeped into his cold fingers.

His nose had turned a bright cherry red, and his cheeks were pale, almost ghostly, against the contrast of the harsh morning cold. The fur-lined coat he wore did its best to shield him from the biting chill, but it was the coffee that finally kick started his internal heating system.

He took a slow sip, letting the strong taste dance on his tongue. A small, unintentional coffee mustache formed on his upper lip, which he licked off absentmindedly before setting the mug down with a satisfied sigh. He reached out with the palm of his hand and wiped a clear circle on the misty glass to gaze at the outside world.

Children were playing in the nearby park, their laughter filling the crisp morning air. Some were locked in an intense snowball fight, while others busily constructed snowbirds—an ambitious evolution of the traditional snowman. Shumail smiled, a rare, genuine curve of his lips. Their innocence was contagious.

As he drained the last of his coffee, he set the mug down and pulled out a crisp $10 bill, tucking it under the coaster. He shrugged on his fur coat, grabbed his belongings, and stepped outside. The snowfall had picked up, thick flakes descending from the sky like confetti.

He pulled the hood over his head and jogged to his car parked a short distance away. The streets were alive with movement—people rushing to work, coffee cups in hand, yelling into their phones about deadlines and deliverables. The chorus of city life.

He reached a crosswalk and noticed the pedestrian signal was about to turn red. With a determined huff, he picked up his pace, but just as he reached the middle of the road, the light changed. He was forced to stop, now awkwardly marooned on a narrow median strip.

"Great timing, genius," he muttered to himself, slapping a palm to his forehead.

Suddenly, something—or rather, someone—collided with him. He stumbled but managed to stay upright. He whirled around, ready to give a lecture on personal space and sidewalk etiquette when he froze.

Bent on the ground was a young woman, scrambling to collect her scattered belongings. The moment she stood and looked up, recognition hit him like a snowball to the face.

It was her. The same girl he'd accidentally hit with his car a week ago. The same girl he'd tried—and failed—to find afterwards.

She adjusted her bag and looked up at him with polite embarrassment. "I'm so sorry! I lost my balance because of my fractured leg. I was trying to steady myself and ended up bumping into you. I'm really, really sorry."

He stared at her, guilt flooding his chest. He glanced down at her leg—still bandaged—and then back at her apologetic face.

"No, no. I should be the one apologizing," he said quickly. "I... I'm the guy who hit you with his car."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Wait—what?"

"Yes," he nodded sheepishly. "That was me. I came back to the hospital to apologize, but you had already left. I tried to find you afterward, but I didn't know your name, your number, anything. I'm so sorry for everything."

She blinked. "So... you're that guy. The car guy."

"Guilty as charged," he said, raising his hands in surrender.

She let out a laugh that made his shoulders relax a little. "Well, you look a lot less terrifying without the whole hit-and-run aura."

"I swear, the running part wasn't intentional."

The snow started falling more heavily now, obscuring their view. They stood in the middle of the walkway like two lost tourists caught in a snow globe.

"Listen," he said, pushing his hands deeper into his coat pockets, "can I at least make it up to you?"

"You already apologized. That's enough."

"No, seriously. Let me do something. Anything. Buy you a coffee? Or at least something warm. Hot soup? A heating pad? A new leg?"

She laughed again, shaking her head. "Okay, okay. One coffee. But only because it's freezing and I might actually need that heating pad soon."

"Deal! The coffee shop's just around the corner. Shall we?"

He held the door open for her and followed her in, the bell above the door jingling with their arrival. They hung their coats over the chair backs and sat at a small table near the fireplace.

He handed her a menu. "Ladies first. Though I must warn you, the cappuccino here is practically illegal—dangerously good."

She scanned the menu. "I'll take the illegal cappuccino then. Might as well live dangerously."

He smiled, flagging the waiter down and ordering two cups.

"I'm Shumail Ibrahim, by the way."

"Nice name. Ma Sha Allah. I'm Eram. Eram Azam."

"Eram Azam," he repeated. "Sounds like the protagonist of an Urdu novel."

She chuckled. "And what about you? Sounds like you moonlight as a business tycoon."

"Guilty again," he said with mock regret. "By day, I run The Ibrahim Estate. By night, I lose sleep over hitting innocent women with my car."

Their conversation lightened as the coffee arrived. Despite the fact that he had already had a mug earlier, he decided another wouldn't hurt—especially when shared with such entertaining company.

"So what do you do when you're not colliding with people on sidewalks?" she asked, sipping her coffee.

"Mostly work. Sometimes stress-bake. Occasionally stare out of windows like a melancholic poet. You?"

"I work part-time at a daycare."

"Ah, so you're surrounded by chaos and crayons. Respect."

"They're actually very sweet. Well... most of the time."

They chatted until the cups were empty and time had nudged them back toward reality. He paid the bill, and they stepped outside once more into the flurry.

"Thank you for the coffee. And once again, stop apologizing. We're even now."

"Only if you're sure."

"I'm sure. Allah hafiz."

"Allah hafiz."

With one last smile, he jogged toward his car and drove to The Ibrahim Estate. Being the boss had its perks—like showing up late without needing to explain to anyone.

His secretary, Ms. Rose, greeted him with her usual efficiency, following him into his office while rattling off the day's schedule.

"Thank you, Ms. Rose. Please get me the Shipyard project file. I want to review it before finalizing the deal."

"Yes, sir. Also, Mr. Sullivan has proposed a date for next month for the Shipyard project and has requested your presence. Should I confirm?"

"Yes, next month is fine. Go ahead."

"Understood."

A few moments later, she returned with the file.

"Ms. Rose," he called just as she was about to leave. "I need you to send toys, cookies, chocolates—basically a happiness overload to the daycare centre."

She scribbled a note. "And the name of the daycare?"

He paused. "Uh... that's the thing. I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"Nope. How many would there be in the town?" He questioned.

"Probably ten to twelve.." 

"Then to all the daycare centers in town."

She blinked. "All of them, Sir?"

"Yep. All ten to twelve of them. Maximum joy, minimum questions." 

"Also I need you to deliver this box to the girl named Eram Azam. She works at one of the daycare. Find out where and deliver it to her."

"This box" turned out to be a beautifully wrapped package of assorted hijabs he had custom-ordered from a friend's boutique. Vibrant colors, delicate embroidery, and soft fabrics—all picked with care.

He placed a handwritten note on top:

Salam!

I know you said you forgave me for the accident, but I still felt bad for my behavior. So this is just a small gift as an apology. I hope you like them.

Shumail :)

He closed the box, tied the ribbon neatly, and handed it to Ms. Rose.

"Make sure this gets to her and only her."

Ms. Rose nodded with wide eyes. "Understood, sir."

As she walked away, Shumail leaned back in his chair, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

I hope you like them, Ms. Eram.

Then, with a renewed focus and a lighter heart, he turned his attention back to work.

Salam guys

A very Happy Independence Day to All my readers
Aazaadi ke 72nd saal mubarak
Saare Jahan se acha Hindustan hamara
Hum bulbule hai iske
Yeh gulistan hamara...hamara

And Happy Independence Day to all my Pakistani readers as well :)

Coming back to chap...how was it?
Do tell me in the comment section :-*