The January night in Lahore was sharp and dry. Railway Colony lay hushed under a thin frost, the air biting at exposed skin. Ayesha Khan stepped off the rickshaw at the mouth of Gali No. 7, paid the driver in crumpled tens, and pulled her thick wool shawl tighter over

The railway station in Lahore was a furnace in late September. The platform baked under the noon sun, the air thick with diesel, sweat, and the metallic tang of steel. Ayesha Khan stood near the tea stall, her dupatta pulled low over her forehead, a plain beige shalwar kameez hiding

The summer night in Lahore was thick and airless. Even at 11:30 PM, the heat clung to the skin like a second layer. Anarkali Bazaar had long since shuttered—metal grilles down, neon signs off, only the occasional flicker of a dying tube light. The asphalt still radiated the