June 23, 2056 – ten years after Khan Sahib and Amina Begum returned as guardians.
The orchard had become something beyond time.
The original mango tree—planted by Khan Sahib when Ahmed was born—now stood as the eternal center of two worlds. Its trunk was thick as a small house, roots stretching beneath the soil to touch both the Indus and Elandria's deepest leylines. Branches arched high enough to brush low clouds, heavy with fruit that never quite ripened and never fell—golden Punjab mangoes kissed with starberry shimmer, tasting of summer memories and midnight magic. Starbloom vines wove through every limb, their golden threads pulsing softly like a heartbeat shared across dimensions. Jasmine from Kot Addu climbed the portal arch itself, now a grand, living gateway of dragon scales, elven silver, Saraiki brick, and Punjabi ajrak patterns etched in light.
The Eternal Bridge was no longer a portal.
It was a place.
Children—great-grandchildren now—ran laughing beneath the branches: wolf-scaled toddlers howling at fairy-winged cousins, frost-breathing infants gurgling with vine-patterned playmates, tiny tusked orclings wrestling centaur-foaled kickers, goblin-hybrid tinkers building sandcastles with satyr-pipers' tunes, lamia-coilers wrapping harpy-gusters in playful hugs, cyclops-gazers sparking with goat-climbers' energy, vampire-calmer coos soothing naga-chimers, sand-wanderers whispering to passion-pipers, wish-flutterers dusting bloom-lighters, wave-gurglers splashing with heartflute masters.
The first generation—Ahmed's children—were now in their late twenties to early thirties, leaders and mentors in their own right. Ammar commanded bridge security across realms, Zara wove protective illusions around vulnerable rifts, Liyana cooled escalating tensions with her frost-sage calm, Elara bound fractured timelines with vines of memory, Rami struck true against lingering Echoes, Durin forged new anchors for unstable portals, Ogra roared unity into divided factions, Drakara embered hope into fading lights.
The second generation—grandchildren—were teenagers and young adults, already walking their own paths: Arjun leading Hyūga-style patrols, Asha seeing emotional fractures before they formed, Zephyr and Lyra playing trickster games across dimensions, Tara and Rohan bending earth and vine together, Krag and Freya smashing through barriers with bear-valkyrie fury, Bjorn and Astrid taming dragons and shields alike, Temur galloping across steppes with nomad grace, Melody piping songs that mended hearts, Niraj and his twin coiling through serpent seas, Storm gusting through skies, Vision gazing truths, Summit climbing peaks, Midnight soothing nights, Serpent and his twin chiming scales, Mirage whispering sands, Harmony heartfluting melodies, Star wishing wings, Wish fluttering dreams, Light blooming shadows, Tide flowing rivers.
The third generation—great-grandchildren—were the future: infants and toddlers already showing sparks—tiny howls, flickers of illusion, wisps of frost, curling vines, small tusks, gear-clicks, bear hugs, kicks, pipes, coils, gusts, gazes, climbs, calms, chimes, sand-whispers, passion notes, wish-dust, blooms, flows.
Ahmed stood beneath the oldest tree—gray at the temples now, but eyes still bright with wonder. His wives—twenty-three pillars of love—moved around him like a living constellation. Khan Sahib and Amina Begum—Storykeeper and Hearthkeeper—sat together on the charpoy under the tree, hands joined, devices glowing softly in sync.
The family had gathered for no crisis, no battle, no prophecy.
Just because it was time.
Ahmed spoke—voice carrying clear and steady across every soul present.
"Ten years ago, the Silent Veil tried to erase us. It failed—not because we fought harder, but because we remembered louder. We sang. We told. We loved. Today we remember again—not out of fear, but out of gratitude."
He looked at his parents.
"Abbu. Ammi. You crossed death twice. You returned with love older than any rift. Tonight we honor you—and all who came before."
Khan Sahib stood—walking stick tapping once.
"I died under this tree. I returned because love doesn't end at the grave. It grows. It crosses. It builds."
Amina stood beside him—rolling pin in hand like a scepter.
"I died waiting. I returned because waiting is love's longest journey. And love always finds its way home."
They looked at the family—children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren.
"You are the bridge," Khan Sahib said. "Every one of you. Every howl, every illusion, every frost, every vine, every claw, every hammer, every roar, every ember, every hug, every kick, every pipe, every coil, every gust, every gaze, every climb, every calm, every chime, every sand-whisper, every passion note, every wish, every bloom, every flow."
Amina smiled—eyes shining.
"And every cup of chai. Every lullaby. Every story told under this tree."
The family formed the largest circle ever seen—hands joined across generations, across races, across worlds.
Ahmed began—voice rising like a qawwali storm:
"Every name. Every song. Every memory. Every heart. We remember you now."
The circle tightened.
Grandchildren spoke first—each voice a verse:
Arjun: "I remember the howl that called me home."
Asha: "I remember the eyes that saw my heart."
Zephyr: "I remember the trick that turned to love."
Lyra: "I remember the illusion that became real."
Tara: "I remember the earth that held me."
Rohan: "I remember the vine that grew with me."
Krag: "I remember the rage that turned to strength."
Freya: "I remember the shield that never broke."
Bjorn: "I remember the dragon that flew with me."
Astrid: "I remember the axe that protected."
Temur: "I remember the gallop that never stopped."
Melody: "I remember the song that healed."
Niraj: "I remember the coil that held tight."
Storm: "I remember the gust that lifted."
Vision: "I remember the gaze that saw truth."
Summit: "I remember the climb that reached."
Midnight: "I remember the calm that soothed."
Serpent: "I remember the scale that chimed."
Mirage: "I remember the sand that whispered."
Harmony: "I remember the flute that sang."
Star: "I remember the wish that flew."
Wish: "I remember the flutter that dreamed."
Light: "I remember the bloom that shone."
Tide: "I remember the flow that lived."
The youngest added gurgles, giggles, roars, chimes—tiny voices blending into the song.
Khan Sahib and Amina stepped to the center—hands joined.
Amina sang—Pathanay Khan's lullaby, the one she sang when Ahmed was small.
Khan Sahib recited—Bulleh Shah's questioning, Farid's longing, Bhitai's journey, Waris's defiance, Shakir's resilience.
The legends joined—every voice that had ever walked with the family—singing, reciting, roaring, piping, howling, blooming, flowing.
The orchard breathed—one breath.
The bridge pulsed—once, twice, three times—like a heartbeat shared across galaxies.
No rift opened.
No shadow fell.
No fracture appeared.
Just… peace.
Ahmed looked at his parents—tears streaming.
"Abbu… Ammi… you did it."
Amina smiled.
"We didn't do it, beta. We remembered."
Khan Sahib placed a hand on Ahmed's shoulder.
"The bridge isn't held by power. It's held by love. By chai. By lullabies. By stories told under mango trees."
He looked at the stars—two skies, one heart.
"The story isn't over. It's just beginning."
A great-grandchild—tiny, barely two—toddled forward, holding a mango blossom.
"Nani… story?"
Amina knelt—took the blossom.
"Once upon a time," she began, "there was a boy who vanished from a barrage ledge. And when he came back, he brought two worlds with him. And when his father and mother crossed after him, they brought love that never ends."
The child smiled—tiny wings fluttering, scales glinting, vines curling, tusks peeking, horns budding, tail swishing.
The family listened—old and young, human and hybrid, legend and life.
The orchard bloomed brighter.
The bridge pulsed—soft, warm, eternal.
Ahmed looked at the stars—two skies, one heart.
"The bridge doesn't end," he whispered.
Amina finished the lullaby—soft, steady.
"It grows."