Junaid Khan Lashari

Young men are always in a hurry to get to this age of helplessness, where I stand alone today. Powerless, yearning for the good old days at the Lashari Mansion. It was supposed to be noisy with my family, but instead, it only has deafening silence to offer. I wish Snober was still alive. I can't help but look at her photo since it draws my attention whenever I'm alone.

I'm really clever, which is why I placed her picture next to my nightstand so I can talk to her often. You're a gorgeous girl, and it's been forever since your charming smile made my heart skip a beat. Look! Our kids have grown up, Snober. He arrived in Scottland a few days ago and will probably return in two years. Our daughter recently earned her master's degree in English literature major. She wants to stay there for a year or so to develop some writing skills and work for newspapers. Snober, do you know what? I didn't want to send them thus far, but I couldn't clip their wings. They longed to soar and be liberated like the birds in the sky, so I have set them free.

Mr. Jay was done talking to her now Jay's thoughts drifted to his memories at Lashari Mansion. He stood up, smiled, and began walking over to the glass window. His green garden appeared hazy through the closed window. His entire world revolved around this garden because it was the most essential thing in his life. His garden's grass and trees had witnessed both his loud laughter and tearful silence.

The entire garden could hear his spoken and unspoken words.

Standing in front of the window, he had a flashback to a frigid December evening when Snober was standing next to him. He remembered his gorgeous wife had scrawled with her finger on the cloudy window, "Life." She looked stunning in her purple top over her jeans, a purple muffler twisted around her neck, her wavy brown hair knotted in a high ponytail.

"Jay, you know the best thing about writing on the fog?" she added, whispering her own writing on the glass pane before continuing.

"What?" he inquired, a smile on his face.

"We can always delete it with the same finger that we wrote it with," she said, her voice echoing in his ears.

"Oh! So, what's noteworthy, hun?" Junaid questioned in a distant memory when he wasn't paying attention to her remarks at the time.

"Come on! Jay, your past mistakes can't be erased, you can't rewrite them, and you will never have a second opportunity. You can't erase writing with a pen unless you have a good remover. But, you can erase this with the same finger you write it with," she continued, ignoring the fact that he didn't appear particularly interested in her comments.

"Impressive," Junaid said before sauntering over to her and leaving his phone on the side table.

"But let me tell you the worst part," she said as Junaid approached her and wrapped his arms around her waist. She giggled after making an unsuccessful attempt to flee. Today, contemplating a faded image of an ordinary day in the past made his eyes well up.

"Carry on..." he had huskily muttered in her ears, tightening his encircling hands around her waist.

"You can't write on the fog once erased unless you release a breath to let new fog grow on the glass. Removal is easy correction takes all our breath away," Snober stated as a lone tear made its way on Junaid's arm.

He remembered her words and the tear that fell down her cheek. Though he didn't notice her speaking previously, her tears captured his attention. Junaid turned her towards himself, and they stood face to face in front of the large window. In the memories of the past, he clutched her hand.

The memory flash ended there, and he unintentionally took a deep breath on the glass window in the same month of December. Still, eight years had gone by since then.

Mr. Junaid, ensnared by the conflict between memories, thoughts, wants, decisions, and losses, took his finger to the glass window. He inscribed, "Lost" while whispering it simultaneously. Then he erases it with the same finger and says to himself, "If you've lost something, look for it. You may not find it. And you may not want to find it. But you will, eventually."

He further reflected,

We can genuinely erase it, and I don't want to think about the worst part of it. We will never be able to rewrite until we take all our breath out.

After he stepped out of the room, he slowly ambled down the hall and called his servant, who served coffee with dried fruits and cake. He sat in his study room with his journal to jot down this memory of Snober.