Samad and Zahir sat in the conference hall located in the basement of Samad's mansion. This basement was a reflection of Samad's identity—exquisite, radiant, and modern. Shimmering marble floors were adorned with designer rugs, while soft golden wall-lights bathed the space in a warm, elegant glow.
On one side stretched a tall glass wall, beyond which an indoor waterfall cascaded gently, its soothing sound filling the air with tranquility. On the opposite wall, a massive digital screen displayed a map of Demara City, where glowing lights flickered over different locations in real time.
At the center stood a heavy walnut conference table, a sleek LED strip embedded down its middle casting a soft blue glow. A crystal vase holding rare white lilies rested on top, their quiet presence deepening the serene atmosphere.
Samad leaned slightly forward, his hands resting on the table. His eyes were fixed on the holographic screen displaying strategy notes, yet his mind seemed far away, detached from the words before him.
Breaking the silence, Zahir leaned forward in his chair.
"Samad, I think the time has come. We should ask for his help… things are slipping out of our hands. What do you say?"
Samad didn't respond immediately. Instead, he let the sound of the waterfall wash over him, as though seeking an answer within the gentle rhythm of falling water.
When no reply came, Zahir furrowed his brows, irritation edging into his voice.
"Samad! Are you even listening? Where is your focus?"
Samad blinked, as if waking from a dream. His face bore the marks of exhaustion and unease.
"Forgive me… what were you saying?"
Zahir's tone softened. He slid a glass closer to Samad and spoke gently:
"Samad, I've known you for a long time. I've never seen you so unsettled. Tell me what's on your mind. It will ease your heart. If you don't share it with me, how can I possibly help you?"
Samad lowered his head, the glow from the LED strip brushing across his features. He drew a deep breath, then said in a voice weighed with sorrow:
"Zahir… what would you do if you found yourself caught between trust and doubt—towards your closest friend?"
Zahir fell silent for a moment, then his eyes lit with calm resolve. Placing a reassuring hand on Samad's shoulder, he answered:
"I would choose trust. Because doubt shatters a man, but trust makes him strong. If Haman is your friend, then you must see him in the light of trust—not in the shadow of suspicion."
A faint spark returned to Samad's eyes. He listened once more to the waterfall's soft murmur, and a slight smile touched his lips.
"Perhaps… you're right, Zahir."
"Then let's return to the matter at hand," Zahir said, exhaling deeply as he leaned forward again. Concern clouded his gaze. "As I was saying—things are slipping away from us. We should ask him for help. What do you think?"
Samad tapped his finger lightly on the table, then replied in a measured tone, stressing the word:
"Are you absolutely sure we should seek help from him?"
Zahir shifted uneasily, folding his hands on the table.
"Yes—from him. The situation leaves us no other choice. He's the only one who can help us now."
Samad thought for a moment, then gave a slow nod.
"Very well."
Silence enveloped the hall. Only the faint sound of their breathing lingered. Finally, Zahir pushed back his chair and rose to his feet.
"Let's go."
Samad stood as well. Their eyes met—filled with unease and the weight of an unknown fear. Without another word, they walked out together.
______
Later, Samad wandered into the garden behind the mansion, his steps measured and heavy. The evening sky was dimming, and the breeze carried with it the soft fragrance of flowers.
There sat Haman, motionless on a chair, his gaze fixed on the ground as though lost in the depths of his own thoughts.
Approaching quietly, Samad spoke with gentle concern:
"You seem troubled."
Haman flinched slightly, then forced a faint smile.
"No… not at all."
But his eyes betrayed him, carrying the weight of weariness and sorrow.
Without hesitation, Samad clasped Haman's hand firmly in both of his. His voice was steady, resolute:
"If you're worried that I suspect you of killing our friend Azam, then you're tormenting yourself for nothing. Because I believe in you… I know you didn't do it. You could never do such a thing."
He paused, drawing a deep breath before lowering his gaze.
"At first, I'll admit, a shadow of doubt crossed my heart… but someone reminded me not to let suspicion take root within me. And they were right. Besides… the man who would risk his life for a child he doesn't even know—why would he kill his own friend?"
Tears welled in Haman's eyes. His face trembled with emotion before he rose and embraced Samad tightly. In that moment, the warmth of their friendship dispelled the chill of the evening.
In the silence of the garden, only the beating of two loyal hearts could be heard.
True friendship can never be broken. It is like a tree whose trunk may be battered by storms, yet whose roots remain firmly anchored in the earth.
______
Haman closed his eyes slowly, drawing in a long breath as though trying to free his soul from a heavy burden. He pulled himself out of the prison of memories—memories that had bound him for the past seven months. At last, he had stepped out of those thoughts. This was the present, this was the moment of now. Everything he had endured was part of his story, yes—but it belonged to the past. Now Haman stood in the "present," though the wounds in his heart still burned as fresh as ever.
Seven months… only seven months, yet they felt like the longest journey of his entire life. The day a bullet tore through his heart, he thought his story had reached its final chapter. That day, he felt the shadow of death looming closer than ever before. Every breath was a battle, every heartbeat a trial of survival.
But then life had unveiled a new mystery for him—the enchanted ring. Not just an object, but a divine test, a symbol of destiny. A ring that had chosen Haman itself. In that moment, he realized his journey was far from over—that a greater purpose still lay ahead.
Yet life had not only given him hope; it had also taken away his most precious gift. Azam… his friend, his brother, the mirror of his soul. Without Azam, these seven months had become a barren desert. Everywhere Haman turned, he was haunted by memories of his friend—his smile, his words, his jokes. In moments of danger, he would almost feel Azam's hand on his shoulder, hear his voice saying: "Haman, I am with you."
But when he looked around, there was only silence—a silence that echoed deep within him. Azam's death had carved a void inside Haman that no bond in this world could ever fill.
Tears welled in his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. Clenching his fist tightly, he made a vow to himself:
"If I live today, it is only for Azam. His blood will not go to waste. His memory will make me stronger, not weaker."
Seven months… of pain, blood, fear, and hope. Haman was no longer just a man. He had become a wounded warrior—a soul broken, yet still standing, still fighting.
And in the deepest chambers of his heart, one truth remained unshakable—
For Azam… he could never abandon the fight.
_______