The light, soft and timid, slipped between the curtains of the room, brushing the walls like a final farewell. In the air lingered that strange, unmistakable scent: the scent of a body still alive, but with death approaching on silent feet.
Laila was seated by the bed. Her back remained straight, but her heart buckled under the weight of exhaustion. Her hands, thin and tense, clasped together, betrayed the turmoil she struggled to hide. She never took her eyes off her husband's face.
He had grown thinner, his complexion drained of all color, and yet, deep in his pupils, a flame still burned. That spark, that untamed fire... the same that had built their empire.
His lips parted, and in a barely audible breath, he called:
— "Laila…"
She leaned in instantly, gathering the whisper like a fragile treasure.
— "I'm here."
Her fingers brushed against his, resting on the sheets. A light contact, almost unreal.
Silence settled in, thick, punctuated only by the soft ticking of the wall clock. Time slipped away, second after second, like sand through their fingers.
Then, his voice broke the air, hoarse but still tinged with authority:
— "Assad…"
The name struck like a blow to the chest. Laila froze. That name alone carried a mountain of pain.
He continued, barely louder than a breath:
— "He must marry."
His words fell like a verdict. Laila looked away, seeking refuge in the corners of the room.
— "He's not ready," she finally replied, her voice heavy with desperate tenderness.
— "He never will be, if we wait for him to decide."
A grimace crossed his face. He was fighting against a pain greater than that of the body.
Laila shook her head, her throat tight.
— "You didn't see him… You don't know."
— "I know."
— "No, you don't!" she cried, voice breaking.
She stood up abruptly, took a few steps, swallowing back her tears.
— "You weren't there when he collapsed. You didn't hear his sobs. You didn't see him reaching out for Samir in the emptiness, as if stretching his hand could bring him back… He didn't just lose a brother. He lost a part of himself."
She turned, her face ravaged, her eyes burning with grief she could no longer contain.
— "Assad carries that death like a rusted chain around his neck. Every breath costs him."
Her husband watched her, silent, with poignant intensity.
And then, in a torn whisper:
— "And do you think… that by letting him rot in his guilt, you're helping him?"
Laila flinched.
He continued, his voice firmer despite his exhaustion:
— "The country… the people… our enemies. They're watching. They're waiting for him to fall. And if he falls, Laila… everything we've built will be swept away."
His voice broke.
The silence that followed was heavy. Dense. Inevitable.
Laila approached again, knelt, and took his hand in hers.
— "I don't want him to lose himself. I don't want him to fade… but I beg you… not like this. Not by forcing a future he's not ready to carry."
Her tears slid silently.
He gently squeezed her fingers.
— "He needs an anchor. Someone to see him as a man, not a sovereign. Not a survivor. Just… a human being."
A coughing fit shook his fragile body.
Laila leaned in quickly, supporting him.
When the crisis eased, he whispered, eyelids half-closed:
— "I'm not asking him to love. I'm asking him to live."
The words floated, suspended in the dark.
Laila lowered her forehead to his hand.
— "Let me talk to him. Let me try… my way."
A faint smile appeared on the lips of the former Cheikh.
— "Always your way…"
A spark of their old complicity shimmered, just for a moment.
Then the shadow returned.
Two hearts still beat in that room.
But for how much longer…
---
The door handle turned without a sound.
Laila straightened instantly, wiping her tears in a quick gesture. Her heart beat too fast, a painful echo to her husband's labored breathing.
Assad entered.
He wore the same dark tunic as the day before, wrinkled, marked by a near palpable sense of abandonment. His steps were heavy, his face closed. His reddened eyes betrayed a deep fatigue and a pain he no longer knew how to express.
He froze on the threshold. As if he no longer knew how to move forward—or why.
Laila met his gaze.
She read in it everything he didn't say: the anger, the guilt, and that silent sorrow that no longer needed words.
Without saying a word, she stepped aside.
He moved forward slowly, each step heavy as if he were walking on the ruins of himself.
He did not look at his father. He stared at a point—somewhere in the room, or within himself.
Laila felt her heart clench. Her son looked immense… but broken.
The former Cheikh opened his eyes with difficulty. A weak smile escaped his dry lips.
— "My son…"
It was barely a breath. A prayer.
Assad clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white.
Then, slowly, he sat at the edge of the bed, head bowed, as if carrying the weight of an entire world.
Silence enveloped them.
His father raised a hand. A trembling gesture, almost childlike.
Assad trembled.
He closed his eyes, fought back the storm. Then, in a hesitant motion, he extended his own.
Their hands touched.
It was rough. Tender. Full of everything.
The former Cheikh squeezed his fingers, with all the strength he had left.
— "I'm proud of you," he murmured.
A tear rolled down Assad's cheek.
Not a sob.
Just a tear. Heavy.
Laila brought her hand to her mouth to stifle a sob.
That moment was theirs.
His father spoke again, voice broken:
— "It's time, Assad… it's time for you to move forward. To marry."
Assad flinched.
He knew. He understood. But he couldn't.
Not yet.
Not now.
He slowly released his father's hand and stood abruptly. Flee that gaze. Flee that future.
Laila took a step.
— "Let him be," she whispered to her husband. "Give him time…"
Her dark eyes, usually so firm, so dignified, were drowned in emotion.