The ceiling fan creaked with every turn, pushing the humid coastal air around the dim café. Smoke clung to the corners of the room. The wooden chairs were chipped, the tables faintly sticky with old rings of coffee.
Near the counter, two old men whispered over their drinks. Their voices barely carried above the murmur of the crowd, yet the words themselves cut sharper than the clink of glasses.
"Eighteen years… and still his shadow lingers.""You mean the Prophet?""Careful." The older one tapped his cup. "We don't say his name. Not twice."
The first man chuckled bitterly but lowered his voice all the same. "Then I'll say this—men like him don't die. They… echo."
Their talk was drowned out as the wall-mounted TV buzzed to life, flickering between static and broadcast. The anchor's flat voice bled into the café.
"Today marks the eighteenth year since the intervention in Majeb, ending the reign of the self-proclaimed monarch and his civil war—"
The image wavered. A flash of distortion rippled across the screen, like water disturbed by an unseen hand. For a moment, the anchor's mouth moved with no sound. Then, just as quickly, the picture stabilized.
At the far corner by the fogged window sat a boy who noticed.
Tahir El-Majebi.
He leaned forward, his fingers resting against a half-empty glass of milk-and-coffee, the condensation dripping lazily onto the wood. His backpack sagged against the chair leg, heavy with books and a single folded letter that burned heavier than them all.
The rejection letter.
He didn't need to reread it. The words were carved into him already: "We regret to inform you…" Majeb Higher School of Computer Science, the pride of the nation, had refused him. Another student—someone brighter, luckier, hungrier—had taken his place.
On the TV, the anchor's voice sharpened:
"Majeb now looks to its brightest minds to lead the future. The Higher School of Computer Science continues to accept only the most promising—"
The words dug deep, like a blade twisted slow.
Tahir said nothing. No sigh. No curse. His silence was heavier than either.
He drained the last sip, set the glass down with a dull clink, and rose. The street outside waited with its humid air, buzzing scooters, and vendors shouting over baskets of figs. Students hurried past with enrollment forms pressed to their chests, their futures wide open.
He stepped into the flow of the crowd, head lowered, blending in with ease.
Behind him, the café's TV flickered once more. For less than a heartbeat, a crude symbol flashed across the screen, burned in static lines. Almost no one saw it.
Almost.