The setting sun bathed the palace in a golden light, soft yet melancholic. The clay walls took on an ochre hue, and shadows stretched through the empty corridors like forgotten memories. Silence reigned, heavy, almost alive. No music. No laughter. Only the distant sound of horses' hooves in the stables.
Assad crossed the grand doors of his apartments, his steps brisk, his face closed. His boots left trails of sand on the polished marble. He removed his jacket with a mechanical gesture and let it fall onto a carved armchair. He seemed tired down to his very soul.
On the balcony, Zeyneb awaited him. Sitting on an embroidered cushion, her legs folded beneath her, she stared at the horizon. The book in her hands was open, but she had not read it for a long time. Her thoughts wandered, like her gaze, over the rooftops of Mazar and the distant laughter of children in the alleys.
She had heard him arrive. As she did every evening.
And as every evening, he had not given her a single glance.
The sound of water in the bathroom briefly covered the silence of the palace. The air was filled with the scents of amber and musk.
Zeyneb closed her book and rose. Tonight, she would not let him avoid her.
When Assad stepped out of the dressing room, dressed in a beige caftan, ready to leave again into the night, she was there. Straight. Unyielding. Standing right in front of the door.
He froze.
— "Zeyneb…" he murmured, gently closing the door behind him.
She lifted her eyes to him. Her gaze was calm, but her features betrayed an ancient weariness.
— "You're leaving again?" she asked, without raising her voice. No reproach. Just a question. Almost a statement.
He hesitated. — "I have obligations."
She folded her arms slowly, unhurried.
— "Obligations… That's what you say every time. But am I part of those obligations?"
He remained silent, as if searching for an answer he didn't have.
— "You know… I don't resent your distance. Not really. What I don't understand is your silence. Your absence when you're here. The way you walk beside me as if I were a stranger."
She moved closer, gently, as one approaches a memory.
— "I never asked for anything but your presence. Not love, not even promises. Just an honest look. A true word."
Assad swallowed. His shoulders tense, his face closed.
— "It's not against you, Zeyneb. It's against me. I try… but the more I try, the farther I feel."
She nodded slowly, tears brimming in her eyes but never falling.
— "Then say it. Tell me frankly that you're not ready. That this marriage, you accepted it out of duty, not choice. Tell me you don't know how… but stop staying silent. Because your silence is more cruel than the truth."
At last, he looked at her. Long, deeply. Then whispered:
— "I'm afraid… of hurting you. Of showing you who I really am. This palace is a refuge for me, but also a prison. And I never knew how to love without losing control."
She smiled sadly.
— "Do you know what would hurt me most? Not that you don't love me. But that you refuse even to try. You hide behind the weight of your past, your duties, but I too have left something. A life. A family. A freedom."
She paused, then added:
— "I have the right to exist in this story. Not as a jewel on display, but as a woman. A wife. An ally."
Assad lowered his eyes. He wanted to speak, but no words came. And so, as always, he walked away. Silent. Unable to stay, unable to leave for good.
And she… she remained. Alone. Standing. In a palace too vast for a single soul.
---
The palace corridors seemed different that night. Less majestic. Heavier.
Assad walked quickly, hands in his pockets, face closed. He ignored greetings, glances, and entered his office, nearly slamming the door.
There, surrounded by books, maps, and silence, he collapsed into his chair. For the first time in a long while, he thought of Zeyneb.
She was right.
He had never truly looked at her.
He had hidden behind his responsibilities, his wounds. But she… she was still reaching out her hand.
A sigh escaped him. He picked up his phone. Called his mother.
— "Assad? It's late, is everything alright?"
— "Yes, mother. I just wanted to know how father is doing."
A silence. Then a reassuring answer. The treatment seemed to be working. He was doing a little better.
Assad felt a part of the weight lift off his shoulders.
— "And you, Assad? How are you?" his mother asked.
He hesitated.
— "I'm doing what I can," he answered.
— "And Zeyneb?"
He swallowed hard.
— "She is strong. And far too patient for someone who's been ignored for weeks."
A silence. Then a soft, firm voice.
— "You don't have to love her. But at least… respect her. Talk to her. Even a 'how are you?' can change everything."
He nodded, his heart heavier. Clearer.
— "Thank you, mother."
— "Take care of her, Assad. Take care of her…"
When the call ended, silence returned.
And with it, an image.
Nahia.
He closed his eyes. Her memory burned within him.
He missed her.
He wondered if she was alright.
If her nights were peaceful, if her heart still beat a little for him, despite everything.
If she ever smiled, thinking of the silences they once shared.
He shut his eyes tighter.
And imagined her… somewhere far away, in a cobbled street of Italy.
Her veil perfectly draped over her hair, her fingers clutching a coat too big for her.
Always modest. Always discreet.
A stranger in the middle of the world.
Her fragile silhouette gliding through the crowd like a melody barely heard — but never forgotten.
He saw her walking, her eyes lost in thoughts that still carried his name.
And that image reassured him.
He prayed that no one there would touch her.
That no one would guess the softness of her silences.
That no one would read in her gaze what only he had once deciphered.
He wanted to believe…
That even thousands of miles away, even in a city that spoke her language…
She was still his.
Not because he owned her.
But because she was engraved within him,
and sometimes…
the most powerful love is the one loved in silence.
He cherished that thought.
Unaware that, in that city, she had found the purest and most irrevocable love.