I stand near the doorway, hands trembling, eyes fixed on my mother.
"Mother… the signs of Dajjal have been fulfilled," I say, voice barely above breath. "We should go to Madinah. Or Makkah."
She doesn't look up. When she does, her face is tired, not afraid.
"Aariz," she says softly, "there is nothing like that."
Then the blade: "Even if there was… we don't have the money."
The sentence settles like smoke you can't wave away.
The next day I stand in a grocery store where shelves are half-empty and prices scrawled in marker that smells like desperation. I hand over the usual amount.
The shopkeeper pushes the money back. "Kid… prices aren't the same anymore."
Something cinches inside my chest.
At home I tell Mother. Before she can answer, Mahir bursts in, cheeks red.
"Yes, Mother—snacks are too expensive now."
That evening the phone rings.
Father's voice comes through, calm but heavy.
"I'm coming home. My boss is going to Makkah. Arrangements are made."
I look up slowly. For the first time, the signs don't feel distant. They feel in the room.
"Mother… what do we do now?"
She looks away, lips moving in silent prayer.
"Pray, Aariz. That's all we have left."
Mahir turns on the television. The anchor's voice trembles.
"Breaking news… eastern regions—Iran, Afghanistan—gone silent. Communication zero. Drones offline."
Static. Then sound—not words. A scream, stretched, wrong, like metal tearing inside a throat.
Mahir drops the remote.
Mosques fill. Streets empty. Phones die.
Anchor: "We… we cannot confirm what this is."
Screen goes black.
I feel it punch my chest.
This isn't news.
It's the starter pistol.
The train roars.
Metal shakes, lights flicker, everyone pretends this is normal.
Father sits upright, eyes open, hands folded—guarding something invisible.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
"Rest," he tells Mother. "Both of you."
She hesitates. He doesn't repeat.
Mahir curls against her. Sleep takes him fast.
I stay awake. Too awake. Too aware.
Father notices.
"Aariz."
I move to his seat.
He doesn't look at me.
"Are you scared?"
The question lands heavier than I expect.
"No," I say. A clean lie.
He nods. Fear doesn't need permission.
The train slows.
Karachi Station.
We step down with our bags.
The platform is empty—unnaturally so.
No vendors. No shouts. Only the people who arrived with us.
The city holds its breath.
Outside, a taxi.
Streets answer with chaos: crowds, shouting, anger spilling like oil.
"Prices! Prices!" someone screams.
A rock hits the taxi. Metal rings.
Driver swears, swings into thinner roads—narrow, darker, safer.
My head against the window.
For the first time since everything began… I sleep.
I wake to quiet.
A familiar ceiling.
Cousin's house.
We sit while tension settles but never leaves.
One family already gone—Saudi Arabia.
The word hangs like both destination and prayer.
Parents whisper: money, routes, risks.
I don't listen.
I follow my cousin into the other room.
Same age. Different lives.
"So," he tries, "what's your father doing now?"
I shrug. "Trying to keep us alive."
He nods.
Then says the name:
Ethisham.