He arrived at Saeeda Amma's house the next day around ten o'clock. Seeing Imam's smiling and contented face, the immediate reaction was that he not only responded to Salar's greeting but also showed affection by kissing his forehead. He had to take all of this as well. She took him to her room, where there were two bookcases and about three to four hundred books in them.

'These books?' Salar asked with a gesture of his hand.

"No, all the easels, canvases, and painting supplies as well''Imam pointed towards the painting supplies and some unfinished paintings that were lying against a wall in the room.

"This isn't too much; the books will fit into about two cartons," Salar estimated while looking at the books.

No, these aren't all the books; there are more," Imam said. She removed her dupatta and placed it on the bed, then knelt on the carpet and started pulling out a carton from under the bed.

"Wait! I'll get it," Salar said, stopping her, and he bent down to pull out the carton himself.

"Take out all the boxes under the bed; all of them have books," Imam instructed him. Salar bent down and looked under the bed. There were at least seven or eight boxes of various sizes. He began to pull them out one by one.

"Is that all?" he asked, standing up and brushing off his hands as he looked at Imam.

She wasn't paying attention to him. She climbed onto a stool on top of the wardrobe in the room and was trying to remove some boxes. Salar, once again, moved her aside and took the boxes down himself. He thought this was the last batch of books since there seemed to be no other place to keep a box in the room, but he was mistaken. She was now opening the wardrobe and pulling out books from a compartment inside, placing them on the bed. There were at least 100 books that she had taken out of the wardrobe. He stood by, watching.

After the wardrobe, it was time for the drawers of the bedside tables. They also contained books. Following the bedside tables, it was the turn of the drawers and compartments of the dressing table. Even the basket of clothes in the room, which he had thought was a laundry basket, was being used to store books. He stood in the room, observing her extracting books from various places. 

The pile of books on the bed had now surpassed the number of books on the shelf, but she was still diligently retrieving books from different spots in the room. She removed the curtains from the windows that opened onto the balcony. After that, Salar saw her open each window one by one, pulling out some books from there as well, which were packed in plastic bags. Perhaps this precaution was to protect the books from dust and moisture.

"These are all the books," she finally told Salar.

Salar, looking around at the scattered boxes and the pile of books on the double bed with great patience, asked, "Is there any other stuff?"

"Yes! I have some more canvases and paintings as well; I'll go get them," she said and left the room without waiting for his response.

Salar picked up a book from the pile on the double bed; it was a novel by a very famous American writer known for writing mediocre romance. He glanced at the title and couldn't help but smile. If he mentioned the name of this novel in front of Imam, she would turn red. He opened the book. Inside, on the first blank page, Imam had written her name along with the date she bought the book, where she bought it from, when she started reading it, and when she finished it. 

He was astonished; he considered such novels to be trivial. He probably wouldn't have liked anyone to see one of that writer's novels in his possession, but she had meticulously recorded her name and dates on the novel as if it were a highly significant book. He flipped through a few more pages of the novel, feeling a sense of unease and uncertainty.

Inside the novel, various lines were highlighted with colored markers in different places. Some lines had stars in front of them, while others had double stars.

He involuntarily took a deep breath and paused.

The lines contained vulgar romance, endless platonic, soppy talk, and outdated dialogues. They had stars marked on them and were highlighted.

Salar, after putting down the novel, picked up the second, then the third, fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh novels. They were all romantic. All of them were similar romantic novels and were highlighted in the same manner. For the first time in his life, he was encountering such a serious engagement with romance, especially of the Mills and Boon and Barbara Cartland type, and as he looked at this pile of books, he realized that she didn't read books in general but only read these kinds of novels.

Among the one and a half to two thousand books in the room, he had only seen a few paintings, poetry, and some English novels. The rest were all English novels. "And this also needs to be taken," he was startled by Imam's voice as he looked at a novel.

During this time, she had also created a small pile of both completed and unfinished paintings in the room. Salar had been occupied with reviewing the books. He placed the novel he was holding back on the pile of books that was on the bed. Looking at the paintings scattered on the carpet, Salar realized that the paintings scattered around Saeeda Amma's house were also made by her, and the reason they weren't hanging on any walls was likely due to the lack of available space.

"Dear, why have you gathered all this junk? Are you going to take it all with you?" Saeeda Amma said, surprised as she entered the room and saw its condition.

"Amma! These are important things for me."

Imam had some feelings about the stuff being considered junk in front of Salar.

"Is it necessary to keep all this? These books could have been given away as scrap. You've accumulated so much, and you should have left the paintings where they were. It's a small house you all have; where will all this stuff fit?" Saeeda Amma was becoming anxious as she looked at the pile of books. It was clear that she had seen all of Imam's books collected together for the first time, and it was not a pleasant sight for her.

"No, everything will fit. We have three bedrooms; we'll use one of them for storing this stuff, but other things will have to stay here. Blankets, quilts, rugs, cushions, etc.—she was ready in a second.

"But, dear, all this stuff is useful. How will you decorate the house with just these piles of books and paintings?" Saeeda Amma was still anxious.

"It's okay; these books are important. There are still some more cartons or bags to pack."

Salar, rolling up the sleeves of his sweater, said the final sentence to Imam.

By around three o'clock, all the stuff was scattered in the guest room at Salar's house. Furqan had invited them for iftar that day, but Salar apologized. For now, it was more important to organize the stuff.

In a store, Salar had seen some aluminum and glass racks a while ago. It was a coincidence that the arrangement there was not in vain. Three six-foot-high and three-foot-wide racks covered an entire wall of the guest room, instantly transforming it into a study room, but Imam's happiness was boundless. All her books fit into these three racks. For the first time in years, the books had found a proper place. Her easel and racks were arranged on the laundry wall racks.

She had only brought utensils and bed sheets among her belongings, and at that time, she hadn't realized that her fate would involve using only these two items from her possessions. For the first time, Salar's kitchen area presented a picture of a well-organized space. The new crockery visible through the glass of the racks and the small new items on the counter had completely transformed the kitchen's appearance.

"I have some work for the office; you go to sleep," he said, and instead of changing into sleepwear, he left the room.

"I'll wait," Imam replied.

"No, I'll be a little late." He said, ignoring the novel Imam was holding, which she had brought to read that night.

He did have some work to finish at the office, but as soon as he sat at the study table, he realized that the last task he wanted to complete today was this. He sat at his table with the laptop on for a while, then suddenly got up and went to the guest room. As soon as he turned on the light, the bookshelves filled with books on the wall in front of him came into view. 

He had placed those books there a few hours earlier, with great care and precision. They were organized according to the authors' names and their various genres. Until then, they were merely Imam's books to him, but now he wanted to take all these books to Bahira Arab to dispose of them, or at least throw them away in Ravi. They were no longer just old books.

Imama's ideal life that she had shared with Jalal Ansar—those one and a half thousand romances were not like the romances of the characters in these novels. They were simply the romance between two characters: Imama and Jalal. Becoming a person of refined taste doesn't require an open heart or tolerance, but rather the absence of critical thinking. He couldn't tolerate these books piled up on the shelves. After Imama's admission, no husband could bear it, especially not her husband. He didn't want these books in the house, and he could make that happen. She was his wife—she could be upset, and angry, but not so much that she could keep these books there against his will. 

She was a woman who could insist, but she couldn't enforce her will. He was a man who didn't need stubbornness as a weapon for his desires. This was his home, his world. He didn't want to live with conditions or in such a manner. He came into the world with integrity and remained in the world with the same. So the easy solution was what society and his mind were telling him. The difficult solution was what his heart was saying, and the heart was saying, "Let it go, let it be, it's a bitter pill but swallow it." Even if his heart hadn't said so, he still couldn't throw out from his home what belonged to Imama.

 What had once been a balm for her sorrows? In these books, she had thought of anyone and everyone, but the name written on these books was her own, and it was a name that was a part of her soul. Patience comes in many forms, and none of them are easy. Standing there, he thought and then turned off the light and left the room.

"Salar," Imama's voice made him startle while sitting in the rocking chair. She was standing in the doorway.

"You haven't slept yet? Are you upset because of me? Has it made you feel this way?" Salar looked at her face and thought. There was a strange fear and anxiety in her eyes. She was wrapped in a woolen shawl over her nightgown. Instead of responding, Salar continued to look at her, leaning against the back of the rocking chair. He had stopped rocking. His silence seemed to increase her agitation.

"Has your family said something? Or has my family done something?" What was she thinking? Salar involuntarily took a deep breath. If only it were the reason and not the reality that it was.

"What will my family say? Or what will your family do?" she asked him in a soft voice. She stood there, still tangled up, as if she didn't know the answer to her question, but she continued to look at him silently as if she was certain he wasn't telling the truth. He was astonished at how she could entertain such doubts in her mind.

He sat up straight in the rocking chair, feeling a sense of pity for Imama. "Come here!" He reached out and took her left hand. Hesitant, she moved closer and embraced him. Salar pulled her hands inside her shawl, wrapped the shawl tightly around her, and held her close to his chest like a small child, patting her and kissing her forehead.

"No one is saying anything, and no one is doing anything. Everyone is busy with their own lives, and if something happens, I'll handle it. You should stop worrying about these things now."

He was now gently rocking her in his arms in the rocking chair. "Then why are you upset?"

"Me? I have many of my problems," she muttered.

Imama tried to look up at his face. For the first time in all these days, he seemed so serious to her.

"Salar! You—"

"I'm not worried, and even if I were, it's not because of you. Don't ask me this question again."

Before she could finish her sentence, he cut her off with a stern tone, answering the question before it was even asked. It was as if he could read her mind. She was unable to say anything for a few moments. His tone was very harsh, and Salar could sense it as well.

"What were you saying to me about needing some things for the kitchen?" he asked, this time changing the subject with great softness.

Imama once again listed the items she needed. "We'll go for groceries tomorrow night," she said. This time, Imama didn't say anything further.

With her head resting on his chest, she looked at the numerous notes, deadlines, and some strange index charts on the soft board on the wall. Then she asked Salar, "What do you do at the bank?"

He was taken aback for a moment, then, following her gaze, he looked at the board. "I do pointless work," he muttered.

"I've never liked bankers," Imama didn't realize how inopportune her comment was. "I know you like doctors," Salar's tone had a trace of irritation.

"Yes, I like doctors," Imama said, looking at the board without feeling any particular emotion, her head resting on his chest as she supported him. While she didn't think of Jalal while saying this, Salar did.

"You didn't tell me what you do at the bank," Imama asked again.

"I'm in public relations," he wasn't sure why he had told this lie.

Imama took a deep, involuntary breath of relief. "That's still better. It's good that you're not in direct banking. What did you study, Salar?"

"Mass Communications," he was telling one lie after another. "I like this subject. You should have become something else."

"So, a doctor?" Salar fumed, but Imama laughed heartily.

"You can't become a doctor by studying Mass Communications," but Salar didn't respond. If she had seen his face, she wouldn't have made all these comments so casually.

"I hate doctors," Salar said in a cold tone. She instinctively moved away from him.

"Why?" she asked, looking at Salar's face in astonishment. His expression was unreadable, and Imama couldn't decipher it at all.

"Just like that," Salar said with a shrug and a cold indifference.

"Just like that? There must be a reason," she pressed. "Why don't you like bankers?" Salar replied tersely, "They're dishonest."

Imama said with great seriousness, "Bankers..." Salar, still uncertain, responded, "Yes, this time she was serious." She stood up, removed her arm from around Salar, and walked over to the board. She was reading the notices and deadlines posted there. "Bankers keep people's money and assets safe," she heard herself say, trying to emphasize her point to Salar.

"And money corrupts people's faith." She replied without hesitation. "Despite that, people still come to us," Salar said in the same tone. This time, Imama turned, but she didn't trust you. She smiled, but Salar did not. He observed her face in silence, then shook his head in frustration.

"A dishonest banker can only take your money, but a dishonest doctor can take your life. So who is more dangerous?" This time, Imama couldn't respond. She tried to find an answer for a few minutes but couldn't come up with one. Then she suddenly asked Salar, "If I were a doctor, would you still hate doctors?"

She was now putting him under emotional pressure. It was wrong, but what else could she do? She didn't conclude possibilities; she drew them from concrete realities. Since she couldn't assist, she couldn't offer an opinion either. He shrugged and gave a clear answer. Imama's color faded a little. The response was unexpected, at least coming from Salar.

"The concrete realities are that you are my wife and you are not a doctor. I am a banker and I hate doctors." The chill in his tone reached Imama for the first time, whether it was the chill in his tone or the coldness in his eyes. She couldn't speak or even smile. In a week, she had never had such a conversation with him. "It's very late; we should get some sleep."

Looking at the wall clock, he got up from the chair without looking at her and left the room. She continued to watch the rocking chair against the wall, unable to understand why his mood had changed. She was trying to recall their conversation from the beginning, wondering if her comments about bankers had upset him. When she returned to the room, the light was on, but he had already fallen asleep. She sat on her bed, exhausted from the day's work, but sleep eluded her despite her fatigue. All the assumptions she had made about Salar over the past week came rushing back. He was lying on his side, and she watched his face from a few feet away. At least in his sleep, he seemed at peace. She wondered why men change so quickly and why they are so unreliable. As she observed him, she thought that his bitterness had increased. Life wasn't as secure as she had thought a few hours ago.

"Will you sleep with the light on tonight?" Salar mumbled as he turned. He was certainly not in a deep sleep. Imama reached out and turned off the lights. But she didn't go to sleep right away. In the dark, Salar turned back towards her.

"Why aren't you sleeping?"

"I'll sleep now," she replied as Salar turned on the side table lamp. Without saying anything, she pulled the blanket over herself and lay down, closing her eyes. Salar watched her face for a few moments before turning off the lamp again. Imama opened her eyes once more.

"You need to wake up for Sehri too, Imama."

She was surprised. How had he seen her eyes open in the dark? She tried to turn her head to see Salar but couldn't make out anything.

"Do you know what the most pointless thing in the world is?" she asked, turning towards Salar.

"What?"

"Marriage," she said without hesitation. After a few moments of silence, she heard Salar say, "I agree." Imama felt a pang of sorrow. At least Salar shouldn't have agreed with her. She felt him pulling her arm around him and then kissing her forehead, saying, "Good night." It was another attempt to make her sleep. She remained silent for a few moments before saying, "Salar."

Salar took a deep breath and opened his eyes. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing."

The lie was necessary, but the truth was very harmful. "Why were you so rude to me?"

"Maybe I was upset because of some office problem, which made me rude. I apologize," he said, running his fingers through her hair.

"What problem?"

"It happens, Imama. You just don't worry. If I ever have such a mood again, don't worry, and don't ask too many questions. I'll get over it myself."

Imama didn't understand his urgency but felt reassured. "I was worried because I thought maybe you were upset with something I said. I criticized bankers, didn't I?"

"I can forgive you for that; it's nothing." He took another deep breath. "You're right, doctors have their flaws too, but I just like them. I can ignore all their flaws."

Salar's eyes suddenly lost their sleepiness. She was elaborating on another issue, which he took in a different context. "Do you hate doctors?"

"I can hate something you like; I was just joking,"