Scene: A Bouquet in the Breeze
Scene: A Bouquet in the Breeze The midday sun bathed the garden in a golden glow, a welcome warmth after the morning prayers. A gentle wind, a playful spirit, danced through the air, rustling the leaves and carrying the faint scent of blooming flowers. I sat on a weathered wooden bench, my bare feet enjoying the cool earth beneath, my white shoes resting haphazardly beside them. My yellow dupatta, a splash of sunshine against the dark wood, lay folded on the bench handle, a silent testament to the recent Ramadan prayers. My gaze, however, was fixed on him. Dressed entirely in black, a stark contrast to the vibrant hues of the garden, he moved with a quiet grace. His hands, clasped behind his back, held his wrists, a gesture of thoughtful composure. Then, he broke the pose, his hands reaching out to pluck a bright yellow flower with an emerald stem. A butterfly, a fleeting stroke of orange and black, flitted horizontally across his path, a silent observer. He moved again, his black shoe...