When we arrived at the hotel, the sky had already surrendered to night. A soft amber glow spilled from the lobby lights, casting long shadows across the entrance. The building stood modest yet dignified—quiet, composed, almost as if it had been expecting us.
We stepped inside together.
The air carried the faint scent of polish and something floral—subtle, welcoming. A ceiling fan hummed lazily overhead while the receptionist greeted us with a courteous nod. Our voices echoed lightly against the tiled floor as we requested two rooms for two days, each with two beds.
There was something comforting about saying those words aloud. Two rooms. Two days. A pause in motion.
After making the payment and collecting the keys, a staff member named Abdul approached us. He was attentive without being intrusive, his posture straight, his expression professional yet kind. With a small gesture of his hand, he led us down a softly lit corridor.
Diljeet and I followed him into one room, while Peter and Amit were guided to another just a few doors away.
As Abdul opened the door for us, warm light flooded the space. The room was exceptionally clean—beds neatly made, sheets crisp, the floor spotless. The curtains were drawn back slightly, allowing a glimpse of the night outside. Everything felt orderly, almost reassuring.
“If you need anything,” Abdul said politely, pointing to a small button fixed near the beds, “press this. I will come immediately.”
His tone carried quiet confidence.
We nodded in thanks.
Once alone, Diljeet and I took a moment just to breathe. The journey’s weight settled into our shoulders all at once. Travel fatigue has a way of sneaking up on you—it hides beneath excitement until you finally stop moving.
Without speaking much, we unpacked what little we needed and headed to the bathroom to freshen up. The splash of cool water against my face felt revitalizing. When I returned, Diljeet was toweling his hair, looking far more relaxed than he had on the road.
“Tea?” I suggested.
He nodded.
We pressed the button.
True to his word, Abdul arrived within minutes, balancing a tray with practiced ease—tea steaming gently in porcelain cups, biscuits arranged neatly on a small plate. The scent of freshly brewed tea filled the room instantly, rich and inviting.
We thanked him and requested the same for Peter and Amit, along with a message asking them to meet us in the common room.
Soon enough, the four of us gathered there.
The common room was spacious yet intimate, furnished simply but tastefully. A large window dominated one wall, and through it we could see the faint outline of trees swaying under the dim glow of exterior lights. Even at night, the greenery seemed alive, as though it carried a presence of its own.
Earlier, birds had perched on those branches, filling the air with color and movement. Now they had settled, leaving behind a quiet that felt almost sacred.
At exactly 9:00 p.m., dinner was announced.
Menus were handed to us at the dining table set within the same common space. The list was filled with local specialties from Nawabshah—names rich with tradition and flavor.
We chose Chicken Saji Bhaji with spicy rice and potatoes.
For dessert, kheer.
And lemon soda to accompany it.
As we waited, conversation drifted easily between us. The fatigue of the road melted away, replaced by the simple comfort of sitting together without hurry.
Peter leaned back in his chair, stretching slightly. “I didn’t expect it to be this peaceful,” he remarked thoughtfully. “It’s… calming.”
Amit smiled. “After seven hours on the road, anything feels peaceful.”
Diljeet said little. He sipped his lemon soda slowly, condensation sliding down the glass. Every so often, his eyes flickered toward the window. Not anxious. Not tense. Just… observant. As though memorizing the tranquility, storing it somewhere deep.
Then the aroma arrived before the food did.
Rich spices. Slow-cooked warmth. A fragrance that wrapped around us like an embrace.
Abdul returned, serving each plate with care and efficiency. Steam rose from the Chicken Saji Bhaji, the spices deep and inviting. The rice was perfectly fluffed, each grain separate yet cohesive. The potatoes glistened, having absorbed every note of flavor.
For a few moments, conversation paused.
Cutlery met porcelain in soft, rhythmic clinks. The first bites were taken slowly, appreciatively. There is something grounding about good food after a long journey—it anchors you in the present.
With each mouthful, the tiredness loosened its grip.
The kheer that followed was smooth and comforting, its sweetness lingering gently. The lemon soda provided a sharp, refreshing contrast, cutting through the richness of the meal with a crisp spark.
We thanked Abdul once more. He nodded respectfully, reminding us again that assistance was only a button away before quietly excusing himself.
The atmosphere shifted after dinner—lighter, softer.
Amit recounted a humorous mishap from earlier in the trip, dramatizing it so thoroughly that Peter nearly choked on his drink laughing. Even Diljeet allowed himself a rare grin.
Plans for the next day were discussed casually. Nothing rigid. Just possibilities.
Outside the window, darkness had fully claimed the trees. The birds were silent now. The world beyond the glass seemed distant, blurred into shadow.
Inside, however, warmth lingered.
The common room no longer felt like part of a hotel. It felt shared. Familiar. Almost like a temporary extension of home.
As the clock edged toward ten, an unspoken agreement settled among us. The day had been long. The road had taken its share of energy.
We rose slowly from the table.
The corridor leading back to our rooms was quiet, bathed in soft yellow light. Our footsteps echoed gently against the polished floor.
Back inside our room, Diljeet and I prepared for bed without ceremony. The sheets were cool and smooth against tired limbs. The stillness of the room wrapped around us like a protective layer.
Before switching off the lights, we exchanged a few final words.
“Smooth day,” Diljeet said quietly.
“Yes,” I replied. “Peaceful.”
There was gratitude in that silence. Gratitude for safe travel. For friendship. For the calm refuge the hotel had provided.
The world outside might have been vast and unpredictable—but within those four walls, everything felt steady.
I turned off the lights.
Darkness settled gently, not heavy or oppressive, just calm.
As I lay there, staring at the faint outline of the ceiling, the events of the evening replayed softly in my mind—the road, the laughter, the aroma of dinner, the quiet view beyond the window.
The hotel felt tucked away from noise and urgency, like a pause carved out of time itself.
And with that quiet assurance, sleep came—not abruptly, but gradually—carrying with it the promise of a new day waiting just beyond the dawn.
I woke up suddenly at 2:30 a.m. in the middle of the night because I had seen a horrific nightmare. In it, a lady dressed in white was carrying a bloodstained reaping tool and was rushing quickly toward me. A few seconds later, I began to hear distant screaming noises.
Was my dream real, or was it just an illusion?
I went back to bed and decided to sleep again. What was waiting for us would reveal itself soon enough.
What would come in our lives only God knows done enormous amount of hardwork on it. However the grammar is corrected with AI because it is not my native language.
Author’s Note: This chapter was edited with AI assistance for grammar, readability, and flow.
ns216.73.216.175da2It's a sweet request to you beautiful people to like and comment to my chapter so that I could get motivated to bring hundreds of stories like that.53Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYaFzyQ1bjO
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