Since that day…
Not a word.
And yet, everything had changed.
Days began to slide over one another—slow, heavy. Inside the palace, the rhythm remained the same: maids bustling at dawn, orders flying, hallways buzzing with a thousand lives. But between two silent hearts, there was nothing left. Only a void.
Assad, ever composed, went about his duties with the same poise that commanded respect. Upright, focused, silent. Every morning, he met with his advisors, approved decisions, handled state affairs. On the surface, nothing had changed. The man on the throne seemed calm.
But those who knew how to read between the lines had noticed: his gaze lingered too long at the windows, his tea grew cold untouched, and his silences had grown longer, heavier.
As for Nahia, she had left the gardens. Two days ago, she'd been reassigned to the royal kitchens. And most of all… she carefully avoided the corridors Assad walked through. Not by accident. She had learned to anticipate him. A guard spotted, a voice at the corner of a wall, a too-familiar shadow on the tiles… one sign was enough, and she changed direction.
Assad noticed, of course. By the third day.
She was avoiding him.
Every time he approached, she vanished.
Every time he entered a room, she was gone.
And he… said nothing.
He tried to convince himself that it was better this way. That it was the only possible outcome. She had walked away—that was her choice. And he… he stayed there, frozen, silent, incapable of taking a single step to stop her. He had no right.
But despite himself, he listened. At the faintest sound of footsteps, he hoped. Sometimes he thought he recognized her, that veiled, fleeting silhouette, silent like the shadow of a memory.
And each time, his heart tightened. But he remained still.
He forbade himself.
Preparations for the wedding intensified. Tailors came and went, heavy perfumes floated through the halls, gemstones sparkled under the lamps. The palace's western wing was changing. The Sheikh would soon marry Zeyneb Al-Rami. It was official. It was announced.
But Assad participated only out of duty.
His gaze brushed the fabrics without emotion.
He nodded, signed, but his mind was elsewhere.
Lost in a garden, by a lake, where a soft voice had lit up his silence.
Where he had felt alive. For just a moment.
A moment that was now gone.
Nahia pretended not to hear a thing. When Amaya spoke of the wedding, she nodded without a word. She no longer listened to whispers. She had closed the doors of her heart. And every day, she woke, worked, cared for Amaya. As if nothing else existed.
One morning, as she left the kitchen to deliver fruit to Assad's mother's chambers, she almost ran into him. He was there, at the end of the corridor. One more step, and their eyes would have met.
But she stopped.
Turned around.
And walked away.
Assad, standing in the middle of the corridor, received a document from an advisor. He took it without looking.
He didn't move.
He had just caught a scent.
Subtle.
Familiar.
Heartbreaking.
Then… nothing.
She had passed.
She had avoided him again.
But this time, something gave way inside him.
Not in a cry.
Not in anger.
But in a deep silence, a crack barely audible.
Like a thread pulled too tight.
And for the first time since the wedding preparations began, Assad lifted his eyes to the sky.
He had done everything to forget her.
But at that very moment… he knew.
He wouldn't last the month.
---
Night fell over the palace. In the wing reserved for the staff, a solemn calm settled. A small oil lamp cast trembling shadows on the walls of the little room.
Seated on her bed, Nahia held a letter in her hands. Amaya, a few steps away, quietly finished braiding her hair.
Nahia looked up at her.
Her voice barely a whisper.
— Amaya…
The teenager turned her head toward her.
— What are we going to do with that letter? Nahia murmured.
— The one from the woman who says she's Mom's sister? Amaya asked, her eyes bright with curiosity.
Nahia nodded slowly. A silence fell. Amaya broke it, her voice soft but steady.
— I want to meet her.
Nahia looked at her, surprised.
— You remember them. I… don't. Just shadows, whispers in my dreams. The stories you tell me. If she's telling the truth, if she really knew Mom… maybe she can tell me. Tell me how she laughed. Tell me what she looked like when she was young…
Nahia's throat tightened. She placed the letter down, inhaled deeply.
— You're right, she whispered.
She sat at the table, picked up a quill and ink.
---
Letter from Nahia
Hello,
We received your letter a few days ago. I'm writing on behalf of my sister Amaya and myself. What you wrote moved us deeply.
It's been so long since anyone spoke of our mother with such tenderness, such memory.
I still don't know if I should believe you. Not out of pride or suspicion. But because we grew up in a world where love and truth were rare… and often dangerous.
Yet your words echoed in me.
Amaya, she wishes to meet you.
She doesn't remember our mother.
I… a little.
Fragments. A scent. A song. A radiant laugh. A sad gaze.
I don't even know if these memories are real… or just dreams we make up to fill the void.
We accept.
We'll come, cautiously.
Tell us where.
Tell us when.
And if God wills… we will listen to you.
May God watch over you,
Nahia and Amaya
Daughters of Lucia and Taymâr
---
Nahia slipped the letter into the envelope with measured, almost solemn movements. Amaya watched her silently, her fingers still resting on a forgotten strand of hair.
A silence filled the room. Dense. Laden with all they didn't say.
Then, gently, Nahia blew out the lamp.
The flame flickered, wavered… and went out.
In the peaceful darkness of the room, two hearts kept vigil.
And outside, somewhere, perhaps fate had just taken another breath.