I have always loved the silence of libraries. They breathe differently than other rooms—like old souls guarding their secrets. The old library in St. Paul's had that very air. Its stone walls were heavy with history, its wooden shelves groaning under the weight of forgotten words, and every time I stepped inside, I felt as though the dust itself was watching.
That morning, Ahad and I carried the professor's book to the same table where we had first opened it. The place was dim except for a single beam of sunlight that cut through the high windows, landing right where we sat. I pulled the chair back, placed the book down, and tried to ignore the way Ahad leaned lazily against the edge of the table, arms folded, his eyes trained on me as if I were about to commit some crime.
He was waiting—for the debate he knew I could never resist.
"You exaggerate Noor's rebellion," he said finally, his voice carrying that irritating calm he uses only to provoke me. "Her disguise wasn't defiance, Iman. It was survival. Nothing more."
I looked up from the yellowed pages, meeting his eyes with the confidence I'd borrowed from Noor herself. "Survival? That's such a narrow way of seeing her. You think a princess risks everything just because she 'needs' to read? No, Ahad. She walked into that library with intent. It was a statement."
He smirked, the kind of smirk that always made me want to throw the nearest inkpot at him. "You always twist stories into rebellions and love letters. Maybe she wasn't trying to burn down the world. Maybe she just wanted to hold a book without being recognized. Maybe that was the only way scholars would let her exist."
"And maybe," I shot back, leaning forward, "you're afraid to admit that women can choose rebellion just as much as men can. That Noor's disguise wasn't weakness, it was power. She was choosing her own stage."
Ahad didn't flinch. He never does. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, and for the briefest moment, the edge in his voice softened. "Or maybe you see yourself in her too much."
That struck deeper than I wanted to admit. My fingers hesitated on the page, and before I could reply, his gaze dropped to the book as though he hadn't said something that unsettled me.
:You think drawing that comparison weakens my point?" I asked, without looking up.
"No," he said, voice low. "It strengthens it."
My fingers froze on the page. For a moment I wasn't sure if we were still speaking of Noor at all. But Ahad leaned back in his chair, arms crossing again as if he hadn't just unsettled my breath.
"You're impossible," I muttered.
"And you're predictable," he countered, but his tone had softened, like he wasn't teasing me so much as… admiring me.
I shook my head quickly, refusing to let him win, even in silence. "Let's stick to Noor, not me. Rebellion leaves marks. If Noor's act was rebellion, it changes how we see her entire world."
"Or clouds it," Ahad replied smoothly. "You want rebellion because it feels romantic. But rebellions burn fast, Iman. Strategy lasts. Noor wasn't throwing fire—she was lighting a lamp quietly, so it would stay lit."
His metaphors were almost poetic, and I hated that they made sense. My pulse quickened, but I forced myself to respond evenly. "You underestimate fire. One spark can burn through centuries of silence. That's what Noor was—fire disguised in simple robes."
Ahad leaned forward now, his face catching the thin blade of sunlight that fell across our table. His eyes—dark, sharp, and annoyingly steady—fixed on mine. "And you'd rather see fire because it feels like you. Would you really choose the quiet lamp?"
The question lingered longer than it should have. I opened my mouth to reply, but nothing came out at first. He watched me, and I realized he wasn't only challenging Noor's choices. He was studying mine.
I finally cleared my throat and said, "A lamp can be blown out with one careless breath. Fire forces you to notice it."
His lips twitched, not quite a smile but close. "So that's the kind of person you are. I thought so."
The warmth that rose in me was unwelcome. I quickly turned back to the book, flipping its brittle pages. The inked script blurred slightly as I traced it with my finger, trying to gather the composure his words had stolen.
We debated further—about whether Noor's steps into the library were acts of strategy or sparks of rebellion, whether disguises hid weakness or created freedom. The library grew quieter around us, as though the shelves themselves were listening.
And beneath every exchange, I felt something else moving. Something not written in the professor's book, not spoken in our words, but alive in the pauses, in the way his gaze lingered a moment too long, in the way my heartbeat raced after his voice dropped low.
Ahad thrived on arguments. But today, it felt as if he thrived on arguing with me. As though, in my defiance, he found something he didn't want to admit.
By the time I closed the book, my throat was dry from speaking and my mind restless from too many thoughts. He leaned back in his chair, watching me with that maddening half-smile.
"You'll never admit when I'm right," he said.
"Because you rarely are," I replied, though my voice lacked the sharpness I wanted it to hold.
He chuckled under his breath. "Maybe. But I don't mind losing—if it's to you."
The words landed softer than I expected, almost lost in the silence of the library. I pretended not to hear them, but they nestled somewhere deeper than I wanted them to.
And for once, I had no argument ready.
The words landed softer than I expected, almost lost in the silence of the library. I pretended not to hear them, but they nestled somewhere deeper than I wanted them to.
And for once, I had no argument ready.
Just then, the heavy oak door groaned open. The sound startled me, shattering the fragile stillness between us. I looked up to see Professor Almeida step into the room, his cane clicking softly against the floor. His eyes, sharp even behind the thick lenses of his glasses, swept over us.
For a moment, I wondered if he had overheard anything. My cheeks warmed at the thought.
"Still here?" he asked, his tone carrying both surprise and approval. "Good. It means the book has begun to do its work."
Ahad leaned back casually, as though the professor's arrival hadn't interrupted something delicate. But I couldn't shake the weight of what had just been said—the words hanging in the air, caught between debate and confession.
Professor Almeida came closer, resting one hand on the table, his eyes narrowing at the open pages. "Then let us see how far you two have wandered into history."
And just like that, the moment was gone.
But in the back of my mind, I knew it wasn't gone at all.
Professor Almeida's cane tapped twice against the floor as he settled into a chair at the head of the table. His presence filled the library in a different way than Ahad's did. Where Ahad brought tension like a storm cloud, Almeida carried the gravity of time itself, as if every word he uttered had been weighed before history allowed it to be spoken.
I folded my hands on the book, trying to appear focused, though my pulse was still uneven from Ahad's last words.
"History," Almeida began, adjusting his glasses, "is not built on certainty. It is woven with threads of possibility, fragments of truth, and—" he looked directly at me, "—interpretations."
I nodded, my lips parting to answer, but then I felt it: Ahad's gaze brushing against me again, sharp and steady. He didn't even bother to hide it. The moment stretched thin, until I forced myself to look back at the professor.
"Interpretations," Almeida continued, unaware or perhaps pretending not to notice, "are dangerous in unsteady hands. They can make rebels out of dreamers, martyrs out of pawns, and lovers out of strangers."
The last word seemed to throb in the air. I shifted in my seat. From the corner of my eye, I saw Ahad tilt slightly forward, his hand resting on the table, so close to mine that only an inch of oak separated us.
I held my breath.
"Take Noor," Almeida went on. "Her disguise—was it necessity? Rebellion? A desperate reach for knowledge? We cannot know."
I dared to glance at Ahad then, and the ghost of a smirk played at his lips. The very argument we'd been waging in whispers was now being spoken aloud, but in Almeida's voice it sounded less like a debate and more like a prophecy.
The professor's voice dropped lower, almost intimate despite the vastness of the library. "But what we can know is this: in that single act, Noor changed the rhythm of her life. One step beyond her boundaries altered everything that followed."
Ahad's fingers shifted on the table, brushing against mine—so slight I wondered if it was an accident. My body tensed, but I didn't move away. Neither did he.
Almeida cleared his throat. "And here lies the lesson, my students: history remembers those who dare, even when their daring is disguised."
My breath caught, because the words struck too close to the moment I was living. I felt Ahad's knuckles press lightly against mine, deliberate this time. Heat flooded through me, sharp as flame and yet quiet as a secret. I didn't look at him—I couldn't.
"Iman," Almeida said suddenly, pulling me back. "What do you think? Was Noor a rebel, or a strategist?"
I swallowed, my throat dry. "Perhaps," I said slowly, my voice lower than I intended, "she was both. Perhaps she disguised herself not to choose between survival and defiance, but to carry both in the same breath."
The professor smiled faintly. "Ah. To contain contradictions. That is the mark of greatness."
Ahad's hand withdrew, but not before his little finger slid against mine one last time, a silent acknowledgment, a secret pact sealed in the shadows of oak and dust.
I kept my eyes on Almeida, though my pulse betrayed me.
"Good," Almeida said. "Very good. You are learning not just to read, but to see. Remember, the heart of history is not what happened—it is what could have been."
He leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment as though to rest, and the silence that followed was alive, humming with all that remained unsaid.
Ahad leaned toward me, his voice low enough for only me to hear. "Seems even the professor agrees with you."
I turned to him, our faces closer than they should have been. His eyes glimmered with mischief, but beneath it something softer flickered, something that made my breath falter. "Don't twist his words," I whispered.
"Me?" His lips curved. "Or you?"
The professor stirred, opening his eyes again, and we both straightened instantly, as if caught doing something illicit.
Almeida tapped the book. "We will continue tomorrow. For now, remember this: history is not dead ink on parchment. It is alive, breathing in you. Every choice you make echoes further than you imagine."
His cane struck the floor once as he rose. He made his way to the door slowly, each step measured, until the sound faded into silence again.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. The air between Ahad and me still burned faintly, like embers hidden beneath ash.
When I finally looked at him, he was already watching me, his smirk gentler now, almost vulnerable.
"You'll deny it," he murmured, "but today, you felt it too."
I opened my mouth, but no words came. For once, language—the one thing I always trusted—betrayed me.
And in the silence, I knew he was right.