Chapter 1 of MOD (Mystery Of Destiny)When the journey changes direction.

Chapter 1

“Miraal! Hurry up! Pack your things before dawn—we will leave for Lahore at 7 sharp!”

“Okay, Ami!”

Yes, it’s happening. We’re moving. Again.

This time, from Islamabad back to Lahore.

Lahore—our home, our roots, the city that knows my name in the wind.

Two years ago, Ami and I left it behind for my grandparents who had fallen terribly ill.

Now... they’re gone. And life is nudging us back where we belong.

I’m also starting college—

Well, restarting it, to be honest. I had enrolled in KIPS college Islamabad but since KIPS college Lahore exists too, I’ll be transferring. New chapter, same books. Same girl, different skies.

While I was packing my stuff, I stumbled upon an old stack of photos—me with Nana and Nani. Ugh, emotional landmine. Their warm smiles hit me like a soft pillow to the face… and I mean the kind that still hurts a little. I tucked them between the pages of my journal. That’s where the memories go—pressed like flowers no one else needs to see.

Anyway, back to the chaos. I packed my clothes, skincare stuff (because a glowing face is non-negotiable), my crochet supplies, my migraine meds, and—don’t judge—three suitcases. I’m a 17-year-old girl, not a monk. A girl needs her moisturizers, memory boxes, and three versions of the same black hoodie for “aesthetic.”

I somehow managed to shove everything into our navy-blue SUV, which was already screaming for mercy. I flopped into the back-left seat, hoping the universe would reward me with a peaceful ride.

But no, guess who was already there?

Musa. My older brother. A pain in the butt, wrapped in sarcasm and smugness. He was sitting right next to me, grinning like he just won a Nobel Prize in being annoying. Why couldn’t he just sit in the front like a normal elder sibling and give me some peace? No, of course not. That would make my life too easy.

Baba was in the driver’s seat, ami beside him adjusting the AC like she’s piloting a jet, and then me—stucked with this annoying brother of mine.

I put my neck pillow on, plugged in my earphones, played my Spotify playlist (thank you, Atif Aslam and Arman Malik, for always understanding my soul), and pulled my sleeping mask down dramatically like a movie heroine. This was going to be a peaceful ride.

At least… that’s what I thought.

“Miraal can’t solve this riddle? Even a kindergartener could do it.”

I peeled off my sleeping mask so slow it was basically a death glare which I hoped scares of anyone.

“Musa, that’s the tenth riddle. I’m losing brain cells. How many more are you planning to ask? I’m sacrificing my beauty sleep for you—you better make it count.”

He just stared at me with that face. You know the one. The “I hear you, but I’ll keep ruining your life anyway” face.

Of course, riddle eleven showed up like an uninvited chachi (aunt) at a wedding.

This is the same Musa who’s three years older than me, studying in a top medical university in Lahore. He came home just to “help with the shifting,” but I think he really came back just to torment me before we moved.

It’s been two peaceful months without him. Two months of silence, no riddles, no jumping out from behind doors, no food vanishing mysteriously from the fridge.

But no.

Destiny looked at my peace and said: “Let’s spice things up.”

After a few agonizing hours, finally—an angel sent from the skies.

No, not my brother. Please. I’m talking about the legend who called Musa and got him glued to his phone. That anonymous college friend unknowingly gifted me the rarest treasure of all:

silence.

I could breathe again.

I seized the moment like a war general claiming peace. Plugged in my earphones, switched to Punjabi songs (because who doesn’t love that dhol beat?), and pulled my sleeping mask back on. Just as I started to feel the long-awaited peace blanket on me…

Boom.

A laser-sharp gaze pierced through my skin. I didn’t need eyes to know whose it was.

“Miraal, don’t you have syllabus left to cover? Why are you listening to songs and sleeping when you could be studying in this peaceful ride?”

Ah yes. My mother. The woman who thinks relaxing is a sin punishable by guilt.

“You’re already behind in studies. Cover your syllabus soon so your college transfer goes smoothly,” she continued.

I sighed dramatically. “Yeah yeah, I’ll open the books in a lit—”

“What are you doing, honey?”

My dad cut me mid-sentence.

“She’s been studying day and night for the past month to cover everything. Don’t you think she deserves a little break?”

“But….”Mom sighed like she lost a battle. “Okay… but once we settle in Lahore, I want you to focus completely.”

“Ofcourse” Dad gave me a sneaky wink through the rearview mirror, and I smiled back like thank you, O savior of all times.

Ami’s always been strict. But sometimes, I wonder if it’s discipline or low-key manipulation. I mean, she has every right, right? She raised us through thick and thin. But still.

I’m aiming to become a doctor—like Musa. Mostly because of her. She never explicitly told me to, but whenever careers came up and I’d say something like, “Ami, I want to be an architect,” she’d hit me with:

“Beta, it’s not that rewarding here. Medicine gives more respect and a secure future.”

If I mentioned journalism?

“It’s very risky.”

Art?

“Beta, people don’t take artists seriously.”

So yeah, little by little, she sculpted this idea in my head that no other career deserves respect more than being a doctor. And here I am—17, with dreams slightly adjusted to fit the image she softly painted for me.

........

I dozed off for I don’t know how many hours, but judging by the sun doing a full performance at the center of the sky, I guessed it was noon-ish… then remembered I owned a phone. Smart, Miraal. It was exactly 11:30 AM. Our first stop was at one of those typical rest services beside a patrol station — the kind that smell like oily paratha and tired travelers.

We went in for a bathroom break and lunch. After stuffing myself with my favorite spicy chicken karahi and a dramatic amount of masaledaar biryani, we began packing our tiny mess from the table. As everyone settled back into the car, I tugged at my dad’s sleeve.

“Wait Baba! I need to grab snacks for the ride. I might feel nausea from eating so heavy.”

Mom gave me that look. “Who feels nauseous after devouring karahi?”

Baba, my personal lawyer, replied, “Let her go, she knows her own stomach,” and gave me the green light. He did try to send Musa along as a security guard, but Musa started whining about how his stomach hurt — dramatic baby. Still, he was forced into tagging along.

Except, of course, he didn’t. He ditched me for the men’s area and I wandered into the snacks corner solo. While hunting for something spicy, I found my all-time fav: local alobukhara and imli juice — a combo from the heavens.

I asked the vendor for the price even though it’s tattooed in my brain: Rs.150.

But he had the audacity to say, “Rs.300 per cup.”

Excuse me?! This man was trying to rob me in broad daylight, just because this juice is rare in spots like these.

I told him playfully, “It’s supposed to be 150"

He mumbled, “Baji, it’s hard bringing this juice all the way here and keeping it fresh.”

“Then make it 200,” I said, giving him my best bargaining face.

He blinked like a confused NPC. “O baji, I might’ve thought about 280… but 200? That’s too low!”

Just as I was about to throw out an empty “I’ll report you” threat, a shadow loomed over us. I saw it stretch across the wall beside me — tall, broad, commanding. Even from the silhouette, I could tell this wasn’t your average road-travel uncle.

A deep, calm-yet-deadly voice followed.

“Bhai, what’s going on here?”

I turned.

And I froze.

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