Time did not wait for grief to finish speaking.
Before the sun could fully rise on their sorrow, preparations had already begun. In Islam, the dead are honored quickly. The body cannot remain long. The living must gather their strength and fulfill the final rights.
Anas was given his last bath.
Carefully. Gently.
Muslim scholars and trusted elders performed the ghusl with trembling hands, washing him with water and camphor, speaking softly, making du’a for his soul. The same body that once carried responsibility, embraced his children, and stood firmly beside his father was now still, surrendered, fragile.
He was wrapped in plain white cloth.
No title.
No wealth.
No status.
Just a servant returning to his Lord.
The Janazah prayer was held with heavy hearts. Rows formed. Shoulders aligned. The imam’s voice broke slightly as he led the supplication. Even men who had not cried in years felt their chests tighten.
Chief was present.
Supported on both sides, but he insisted on standing.
This was his son.
Nothing would keep him away.
By late evening, they reached the cemetery. The sky was painted in fading orange and gray, as if the day itself was mourning. The grave had already been prepared. Deep. Narrow. Waiting.
Anas was lowered slowly into the earth by his brothers and close family members. Junaid’s hands shook as he helped position him. Jamil could barely see through his tears. Soil was placed gently over the white shroud.
Dust to dust.
The sound of earth hitting the grave was unbearable.
Final.
Prayers were made again. Some neighbors stood at a distance. Others stepped forward to console the family, whispering words of patience and submission to Allah’s will.
But nothing could fill the emptiness forming inside them.
When it was over, people began to leave quietly. One by one, they walked away from the fresh mound of earth that now held a man who had once filled an entire mansion with presence.
Night fell fully by the time they returned home.
The house felt different.
Quieter.
Each person retreated into their own corner of grief. Doors closed softly. Sobs were muffled by pillows. Servants moved silently through hallways that once echoed with conversation.
Chief remained in the living room.
Alone.
The large space around him felt hollow. He sat in his usual chair, staring ahead, but seeing nothing in front of him. Tears slid down his face slowly, continuously.
Memories flooded him without mercy.
Anas sitting beside him during long evenings.
Anas listening more than he spoke.
Anas offering advice in the gentlest tone.
Anas carrying responsibilities without complaint.
Chief remembered how emotional Anas used to become whenever they spoke deeply. How his eyes would glisten. How he would hold his father’s hand a little longer than necessary before leaving.
At the time, Chief never understood why.
Now he did.
Perhaps Anas always knew life was fragile.
Perhaps he simply loved deeply.
Chief’s chest tightened as another memory surfaced. A day Anas had come unexpectedly, saying he just wanted to spend time with his father. No business. No discussion. Just presence.
Chief had been busy that day.
He had cut the visit short.
The regret pierced him now like a blade.
If only he had known.
If only he had known that time was running out.
Elsewhere in the house, the wives mourned in their own ways. Some cried openly. Others sat in silence, staring at walls as if waiting for him to walk through the door again.
Later that night, a few family members prepared to return to the hospital to check on Haneefah. She had collapsed earlier, and though she regained consciousness briefly, she had not been stable.
But when they arrived, she was not there.
She had discharged herself.
The nurses explained that she insisted on leaving.
Panic rose again.
Calls were made repeatedly. Her phone went unanswered at first. Fear began to creep in. After several attempts, they decided to contact her family.
Her family answered.
Haneefah was with them.
Safe.
But shattered.
They said she had barely spoken since arriving. She had locked herself in a room, refusing food, refusing comfort. She was not herself. She was sobbing bitterly, asking questions no one could answer.
She needed space.
She needed silence.
She needed to grieve without eyes watching her break.
Zainab had also returned to her own family home. She could not remain in the mansion. Every corner reminded her of him. She carried her pain back to the place where she once felt like a daughter, not a widow.
And so the mansion, once full of four strong sons, stood under the weight of absence.
One buried beneath earth.
Two wives separated by grief.
A father drowning in regret.
Brothers trying to remain strong but falling apart when alone.
It was not just a burial.
It was the end of a chapter none of them were prepared to close.
And the silence that followed was louder than any cry.
----------
The mourning did not end with the burial.
It stretched.
One month passed. Then two. Then three.
Time moved forward, but the pain did not move with it.
The house slowly returned to routine. Meals were cooked again. Visitors reduced. Conversations resumed in low tones. Laughter even dared to appear once or twice in distant corners.
But his absence always returned like an uninvited guest.
It would sit between them at the dining table.
It would follow them down the staircase.
It would echo in the living room at night.
The brothers often gathered together in the evenings. Sometimes in silence. Sometimes with tea untouched in their hands. And eventually, someone would begin.
Jamiu: Remember how he used to speak?.
Junaid: yeah... always confident.
Jamil: Remember how he handled father’s anger.
Jamiu: yesss!!
Junaid: Remember how he solved issues without raising his voice.?
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Though he was the youngest, Anas had carried himself with a presence that felt older than all of them. There was something about him that commanded respect without demanding it. You would never dare question his authority, even as his elder brother.
Sometimes they would shake their heads in disbelief.
It felt as though he had been born for leadership.
As though he was meant to be the eldest.
As though destiny had arranged things differently than it should have.
His wisdom had surpassed his years.
And now that wisdom was buried beneath soil.
Inside the mansion, the wives lived differently.
Some adjusted faster than others. Some accepted reality and tried to rebuild their routines.
But Haneefah and Zainab remained suspended in grief.
Widowhood sat heavily on their shoulders.
Haneefah eventually returned to the mansion with her children. She walked back into her home carrying memories like invisible luggage. Every corner reminded her of him. The bedroom felt too large. The wardrobe still carried his scent. His prayer mat remained folded where he left it.
She stopped going to work.
Days blended into one another. She poured herself into her children, holding them tighter than before, watching them sleep at night as if afraid something else would be taken from her.
The brothers tried their best to support her financially. They discussed among themselves, agreeing that Anas’s family would never lack.
But Haneefah refused their help. Calmly at first. Firmly later. She would say she was fine. That she could take care of herself and her children. That no one could replace her husband. That their kindness, though appreciated, could never be him.
There was pain in her pride.
Chief began visiting her often. Sometimes he would just sit quietly in her living area, watching his grandchildren play. Other times he would attempt gentle conversations, asking if she needed anything.
But even he could see the light had dimmed in her eyes.
Meanwhile, his own health was quietly declining. He ate less. He spoke less. He came downstairs less frequently. Age was catching up with him, but grief was faster.
He never told his sons how weak he felt. He dismissed the dizziness. He ignored the sleepless nights. He carried his mourning alone, reliving the loss of his son over and over again in silence. The house had lost a pillar. Now its foundation was weakening too.
Jamil, Jamiu, and Junaid slowly returned to their businesses and responsibilities. Life demanded attention. Work did not pause for sorrow. But every time they returned home in the evening, every time they passed the spot where Anas used to sit, the emptiness greeted them again.
Six months passed. Six long months.
Then one afternoon, Anas’s lawyer arrived at the mansion. It was time to read the will. The family gathered reluctantly. Documents were placed neatly on the table. The lawyer spoke respectfully, explaining that Anas had organized his affairs carefully. Properties, investments, shares.
Haneefah interrupted. She did not want to hear it. Her voice was tired, not angry. She said she was not interested in properties. Not interested in wealth. Not interested in distribution.What was the use?
Without him, everything meant nothing.
The lawyer gently insisted. The assets were not only hers. They belonged to the children. It was their right. Their future.
Still, she shook her head.
Money could not sit at the dinner table.
Property could not call her name at night.
Shares could not hold her hand.
The discussion was postponed.
And so life continued in that strange space between healing and hurting.
Six good months had passed. The mansion functioned again. The businesses ran. The children went to school. Visitors came and left. But Anas’s absence remained alive. Felt in the quiet pauses. Felt in the empty chair.
Felt in the way everyone had grown a little older within half a year.
Some wounds close. Some simply learn to live inside you. And for this family, his absence was no longer loud.
It was constant.
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