He held the blanket, with only arm tightly around shoulders and stared past the dark valleys, reaching out for something he cannot see. Not bothered by how far he came from home to escape the feelings of despair and distress. “Tum zindagi se lar nai sakhtay” (You cannot fight life) his mother used to say. “I lost Ma, I lost” he whispered. Closing his eyes, he clenched his wrists praying to wake up from a nightmare. His only hand unintentionally reached out to a picture in pocket, as tears rolled down to his cheeks. A beautiful face smiling at him, he held it close to heart. Remembering the warmth of his daughter's voice, her laugh, her first words, “Meri zindagani” (my lifeline) was what he used to call her. He smiled, remembering evening to be his favorite time when she would hug him tightly for coming back home. She'd have grown to be just like her mother, beautiful, wise and well-mannered. Smiling at the memories, he looked up into the dark cloudy sky, tears escaping his eyes thinking of her and how he would do anything to hold her just one more time. The agonizing pain in the chest was unbearable, as though his heart is trying to hold itself together, while his thoughts were tearing it apart. Losing his wife to child birth was difficult but God gave him a hope to live, to feel loved again, and to have a purpose. What does he have now? The blast took away everything. He remembers the first time he held his angel, red cheeks, round eyes crying in his hands. And for the last, motionless and drenched in blood. He got back to his feet and with every step back home, he saw nothing but emptiness and distress in the days to come. He looked ahead and thought, "Quetta, you were my pride."