Chapter 1: The Quiet Call of the River
Word count: approximately 5,200 words
February 23, 2046 – twenty years to the day since Ahmed Khan vanished from the Taunsa Barrage ledge and returned forever changed.
The orchard behind the family home in Kot Addu had grown vast. The original mango tree Ahmed's father planted when his son was born now stood as the centerpiece—trunk thick as three men, branches heavy with fruit that shimmered faintly with Elandrian starlight. The Eternal Bridge portal arch rose at the far edge, open and unguarded, its golden light a constant companion to the daily rhythm of life. Children—Ahmed's grandchildren—ran laughing between trees, their hybrid traits flashing in the sun: wolf-scales glinting, fox-tails swishing, frost-breath making tiny snowflakes in the warm air.
Ahmed Khan—now 41 in appearance (High Human longevity keeping time gentle)—stood on the veranda, watching the chaos with the same quiet smile he'd worn since childhood. His white kurta was embroidered with ajrak and phulkari; his wives moved around him like a living constellation, each one a thread in the tapestry of two worlds. The spire in Elandria was home, but this courtyard in Kot Addu remained the true heart.
Today, however, the courtyard felt different. Ahmed's father—Khan Sahib, now 78—sat on his favorite charpoy under the old tree, ajrak shawl draped over his shoulders, hands resting on a walking stick carved with Indus waves. His hair was fully white, his eyes still sharp, but slower. The years had taken their toll—not in frailty, but in stillness. He watched the grandchildren play with the same look he once gave Ahmed as a boy.
Ahmed approached, sitting beside him on the charpoy.
"Abbu," he said softly, "you've been quiet today."
Khan Sahib looked at the portal arch, then at the orchard, then at his son.
"Beta," he said, voice low and steady, "I've watched you build this bridge for twenty years. Watched your wives, your children, your grandchildren cross worlds like stepping from one room to another. I've seen the legends walk your halls, heard Pathanay Khan's voice echo from crystals, seen frost and fire and vines grow together. I've seen you become more than my son—you became something eternal."
Ahmed's throat tightened. "Abbu, I—"
Khan Sahib raised a hand.
"Let me finish. I've never been jealous. I've only ever been proud. But lately… the river calls me. Not the Indus—not the one we see. The one inside. The one that flows through every story I ever told you."
He looked at Ahmed—eyes clear, no tears, only certainty.
"I want to cross the bridge. Not as a visitor. Not as a grandfather watching from the veranda. I want to walk it. See the worlds you built. Meet the people who helped you become who you are. I want to hear the legends sing in their own voices. I want to stand in the dunes where you first heard Farid's kafi echo. I want to sit under the starbloom trees and listen to Bhitai's river flow. I want to feel the chaos you tamed. One last journey—before the river takes me home."
Ahmed felt the words like a quiet thunder in his chest.
"Abbu… you're asking to leave this world?"
"No, beta. I'm asking to see the one you made. And then—when the time comes—I'll come back here. To this orchard. To this tree. To die under the mangoes I planted for you."
Silence stretched between them—only the laughter of grandchildren and the soft hum of the bridge.
Ahmed's mother appeared at the doorway, dupatta slipping as always. She had heard.
She walked over, sat on the other side of her husband, took his hand.
"Ji," she said softly, "you've waited long enough. Go. See what our son built. Bring back stories for the great-grandchildren."
Khan Sahib squeezed her hand.
"I'll bring back the river, begum. So you can hear it too."
Ahmed looked at his father—really looked. The man who taught him to ride a bicycle on dusty lanes, who told him Dulla Bhatti stories by lantern light, who prayed beside him at Fajr, who never once questioned the impossible when Ahmed returned glowing and changed.
"Then we go," Ahmed said. "Together. The whole family. But first—you lead."
Khan Sahib smiled—the rare, full smile that meant everything.
"First," he said, "we eat. No journey starts on an empty stomach."
The family gathered—wives, children, grandchildren—under the old tree. Chai flowed. Parathas sizzled. Mangoes were sliced and shared. Stories passed from mouth to mouth—Saraiki legends, Elandrian lore, Punjabi jokes from Iftikhar Thakur recordings.
Khan Sahib told the old sparrow-and-crow khichari tale one last time, voice steady, eyes bright.
When the sun dipped low, he stood.
"I'm ready."
Ahmed opened the portal wider—full family crossing.
They stepped through—Khan Sahib first, walking stick tapping, ajrak shawl fluttering.
The bridge welcomed him like an old friend.
The Journey Begins
First stop: the Whispering Dunes.
Khan Sahib walked the golden waves slowly, stick sinking slightly. The sands whispered Farid's kafis—soft, familiar.
He stopped at the old sanctum, the floating crystal orb still pulsing.
He placed his hand on it.
Visions rose—not of war, but of quiet moments: Ahmed as a boy hiding behind neem trees, laughing with cousins; Ahmed returning through the first portal, glowing and lost; Ahmed reciting kafis to his children under starlight.
Khan Sahib smiled.
"This is what I wanted to see. Not battles. Not power. You—my son—building love across worlds."
He turned to Ahmed.
"Take me to the spire. I want to meet the legends."
They crossed.
The spire courtyard was ready—lanterns lit, tables set with sheer khurma and parathas.
The legends waited—Bulleh Shah dancing, Farid burning, Bhitai flowing, Waris defiant, Ghalib witty, Jhansi fierce, Dulla protecting, and all the others.
Khan Sahib walked among them—stick tapping, eyes shining.
He stopped before Bulleh.
"You sang of not knowing who you are," he said. "I always knew who I was—father of Ahmed Khan. And now… grandfather of legends."
Bulleh laughed—wild, joyful.
"Then dance with me, old man!"
They danced—slow, gentle, father and legend under starbloom trees.
Khan Sahib moved to Farid.
"Your thirst—I felt it every time Ahmed left for the other side. But he always came back."
Farid bowed.
"Thirst is love. You carried it well."
To Bhitai:
"Your Sassui climbed mountains. My son climbed worlds. Thank you for showing him how."
Bhitai's voice flowed like the Indus.
"He carried the river with him."
To Ghalib:
"You taught him wit. He used it to make us laugh when the world was dark."
Ghalib smiled.
"Wit is the spice of life. You gave him the salt."
To Jhansi Rani:
"You taught him to fight for freedom. He fought for love."
Jhansi Rani saluted.
"He fought like a true queen."
Khan Sahib moved through them all—shaking hands, touching shoulders, whispering thanks.
Then he sat under the starbloom tree—Ahmed's mother beside him, grandchildren around.
He looked at the stars—two skies, one heart.
"I've seen enough," he said softly. "I've seen my son become more than I ever dreamed. I've seen my grandchildren carry the bridge. I've seen love win."
He looked at Ahmed.
"Beta… I'm ready to go home. Not to Kot Addu. To the orchard. Under the tree I planted for you."
Ahmed's throat closed.
The family gathered—silent, reverent.
Khan Sahib lay back on the grass, ajrak shawl under his head, mango blossoms falling gently.
He looked up at the stars.
"Allah… thank you for this life. For this son. For this family. For two worlds that became one."
His eyes closed.
The orchard held its breath.
A soft wind rose—carrying Pathanay Khan's voice from a crystal nearby:
"Merra ishq vi tu, mera imaan vi tu…"
The wind carried the song upward—through the bridge, through both skies.
Ahmed's mother placed her hand on her husband's chest.
"He's home," she whispered.
Ahmed knelt, kissed his father's forehead.
The family stood vigil—wives, children, grandchildren, legends—under the mango tree.
No tears. Only quiet pride.
The orchard bloomed brighter.
The bridge pulsed once—soft, warm.
Khan Sahib had crossed one last time—not through the portal, but through love.
And the bridge grew stronger.