Assad had returned the night before, in the very heart of darkness.
But the truth was, his mind had never once left her image.
Nahia.
Her deep eyes.
Her soft voice.
And that silence between them… more searing, more unbearable than a thousand unspoken words.
The moment he set foot in the palace, only one desire burned in him: to run to her. To hold her in his arms. To finally say what he had buried for far too long.
But he stopped. Held back. Paralyzed by a deep, gnawing fear.
The fear of her words.
But more than that, the fear of not finding his own.
So he made himself a promise.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow he would go see her. He would speak to her. He would tell her to wait for him.
A year.
That was all he asked. One year to come back, to rebuild himself. To love her… as she deserved.
But the next day, life was cruel. Merciless.
Duties crashed upon him like a tidal wave.
Time slipped away.
And Nahia… vanished in the chaos.
She must still be in the village, he thought, trying to reassure himself. At her uncle's. Good. That gives me time. I want to speak to her properly, find the right words.
But two days later, as the sun dipped low, a strange sensation overtook him.
An emptiness. A loss. A silence no longer sweet.
He wandered the palace corridors like a soul without anchor. Searching for traces of her: her laugh, her scent, a shadow at the turn of a hallway.
Nothing.
He wanted to ask. To question. But he held back.
Not yet.
Then one thought seized him.
The hidden garden.
Their refuge. Their secret.
The place where the world seemed to pause.
Perhaps she would be there.
He went, heart pounding, led by a fragile hope.
And there… bathed in the golden light of sunset… a feminine silhouette. Sitting. Still.
His breath caught.
She's here… Nahia…
A smile bloomed on his lips. He quickened his pace, carried by the momentum of his heart.
But as he approached, reality struck.
It wasn't Nahia. It was Yasmina.
"What are you doing here, all alone?" he asked softly, voice dulled.
Yasmina didn't answer. Her eyes were lost in emptiness, her frail shoulders trembling.
He stepped closer, worry already stirring in him.
Tears ran down her cheeks.
The brother in him snapped to alert.
"Yasmina? You… you're crying? What happened? Did someone hurt you?"
She sobbed, unable to form words. He knelt, gently resting his hand on her shoulder.
"Is it Father? Mother? Someone in the palace?"
His voice grew imploring. A breath of panic.
Then, between hiccuped breaths, she whispered:
"It's… Nahia."
Everything stopped.
"What? What about her? Is she sick? Was there an accident? Tell me where she is!"
Yasmina didn't answer right away.
"Yasmina!" he almost shouted, heart teetering on the edge. "Tell me!"
At last, she lifted her red, broken eyes.
"Nahia's gone, Assad."
One heartbeat. Then two.
A chasm.
"No… You're wrong. She's at her uncle's. She would never—"
"No, my brother… She left yesterday. For Italy. She… she's not coming back."
His world collapsed.
He staggered, as though struck by an invisible storm.
"No… That's not possible. Not without a word. Not without saying goodbye…"
Yasmina then pulled a crumpled note from her pocket.
"She left me this letter… Amira gave it to me."
He snatched it, fingers trembling, breath caught.
He read.
And with each word, his heart cracked further.
A gentle letter. Pain veiled with tenderness. A farewell written in love.
But Yasmina had left out one detail.
In that letter… Nahia confessed everything.
Her feelings.
Her love.
Her secret.
And she had asked… never to tell him.
But he had read it.
He knew.
He stood frozen, the letter crumpled in his hand.
The palace no longer existed.
The world no longer existed.
Only this truth, bare and aching:
She loved him.
And she was gone.
A ragged breath escaped his lips.
"Not her… Not now… Not like this…"
And in his heart, something went dark.
---
The landing was smooth.
Too smooth, almost unreal.
Nahia hadn't closed her eyes all night.
The black sky over the Mediterranean had carried away her tears, her fears… and Assad.
The plane rolled along the tarmac in Venice.
And in her chest, a hollow.
No joy. No relief.
Just… emptiness.
Beside her, Amaya's eyes sparkled as she pressed her forehead to the window.
Somewhere, behind the glass of Marco Polo Airport, their aunt Giulietta waited.
"Are you ready?" Amaya whispered.
Nahia nodded.
She lied.
Fourteen years.
Fourteen years since she'd set foot here.
Since… the accident.
Since they'd been torn away from this land, this language, this life.
Today, she returned.
But nothing in her knew if she could stay.
Giulietta was there, elegant and radiant, arms wide open. The moment she saw them, a burst of joy lit her face.
Tesoro mio! "You're here… finally! Come into my arms, my darlings… My God, how I've missed you…"
She held them long, as if to make up for all the lost years.
"I can't believe it… You're really here… it's a dream…"
Then, her voice softened, tender beyond words:
"Come now… I'll take you home."
No drama. No grand gestures.
Just quiet tenderness. Contained emotion.
A silent promise.
In the taxi, Giulietta spoke of Venice, its alleys, its secrets.
Amaya drank in her words, wide-eyed.
Nahia stayed still.
Like a stranger in her own story.
The house was simple, full of soul.
A basil garden, green shutters, an old fig tree.
"This will be your home too. As long as you wish."
Her room overlooked a small courtyard.
On the desk, a black notebook awaited her.
She closed the door.
And there, alone in that unfamiliar room… Nahia felt the past return.
She brushed her hand over the sheets. Closed her eyes.
She wanted to cry.
But there was nothing left.
No tears. No words.
Only silence.
And in that silence… Assad's face.
Always him.
She opened the window.
The sea air swept in, heavy with salt, memories… and surrender.
A bell tolled in the distance.
Slow. Solemn.
She whispered, in a breath:
"I'm back, Mama. Papa… But I don't know if I'm ready to stay."
Before her, Venice stretched out, beautiful and strange.
And she, Nahia, remained still.
Caught between what she was running from…
And what she wasn't yet ready to embrace.