Sehmat had vivid dreams. It was not a new occurrence, unlike everything else that had been happening to her, but they were dreams, and while they were a constant in her life, they were not much in the way of company. Not when they managed to fool her brain into providing a false sense of security. And not when they were nightmares. She managed to wake up by herself from most of them. Other times they scared her into awakeness.

But right now she could do neither, when she was dreaming of her father. She was powerless when she saw him smiling at her, beckoning to her, walking merrily through the Chinar grove near their home, and she could only follow him as they walked her favourite path—well worn from years of treks—losing all semblance of sense and logic until she could only wonder what out of it all was fact, and how much of it fiction. This was real though, was it not? She could smell the spicy scent of Chinars and feel the stinging cold of a Kashmiri March.

They emerged from the grove at one of the many seasonal ponds that formed every year, the way Sehmat had known they would. Suddenly, suddenly there was an immensely crushing weight on her chest, a heavy sense of foreboding as she waited for something to go wrong. Abbu was standing at the edge of the pond, even though the water would be unbearably cold this time of the year. He stepped into the pond as she watched, and even as she dissented her father stepped further and further into the pool. The pool should have been shallow, but the water was up to his chest now. He wasn't looking at her anymore—he couldn't sense her distress. She tried calling out to him, but her voice was too small, words refused to leave her lips as she watched. And she watched as the water reached Abbu's neck, then his nose, and she could only watch helplessly, only watch, not move and she was crying, crying—

"Sehmat!"

Firm hands on her shoulders, although there was no one there with her—not that she could see anything through her tears—gentle soothing voice and warmth. Her tears were brushed away and she could see clearly again. And suddenly she wasn't there anymore.

It took her a few moments to realize where she was, and another few to realize whom the voice belonged to. Her cheeks were wet, and she was sitting up in bed, breathing heavily. She stared at the space in front of her first, not knowing what to do, even as Iqbal's gaze lingered on her. His countenance would be worried, she knew, but she couldn't look at him just yet. She had to comprehend, first, what she had dreamt. She heard movement beside her—rustling of fabric and clinks of glass—and then Iqbal was there beside her again, pressing a glass of water in her hands and looking at her expectantly. She took a sip, then another, and finally gathered courage enough to look up. Her hands trembled. She was shaking. Iqbal removed the glass from her hands and placed it on the side-table instead, then waited, hesitant.

Sehmat could feel the wetness on her cheeks again—she couldn't help crying right then. It had been horrible. So, so horrible. She averted her gaze again from Iqbal to her hands, which she hadn't realised she had clenched into tight fists. She couldn't remember much of her dream anymore, but that scene—her father—were etched behind her eyelids still. She could still feel the biting cold and smell the Chinar, but those memories from her childhood were tainted now. She gave an involuntary shiver as she slowly curled herself into a tight ball. She wasn't going to sleep tonight, she decided, or any other night.

Then, gently, she felt Iqbal draw her back from her bundle of misery—butterfly-soft touches as he seemingly gathered both her and her grief and drew her against himself, soft murmurs of words Sehmat cared not to decipher except they felt soothing. Warm reassurances that he was there for her. He was everything opposite to what she felt in that moment, and everything that she needed. And Sehmat hated it. She hated it because he was the enemy, and because it was bad enough that she was betraying him and the entire family, and because she was not deserving of the love that was extended towards her. Because no matter how much she wanted to, it wouldn't do for her to find comfort in the enemy.

It only deepened the wound that the truth had left in her, and she knew it would be more prudent for her to draw away, but right then she could not find the strength to face her demons, or to make it through the rest of the night alone, or to draw away from what was probably the only source of warmth or care or … love in her life. So she allowed herself this one night—this one embrace, this one chance of finding comfort—before she reminded herself that he was the enemy.