Rayyan had never been to a house like this.
The driveway felt too clean, too smooth.Like it had never known the weight of struggle.
The garden was trimmed neatly, flowers arranged like they were part of a painting instead of real life. Even the air smelled different here—soft, light, untouched by smoke or dust.
Rayyan's heart beat faster the moment he stepped out of Aydan's car.
He looked down at himself—faded jeans, shirt washed too many times, shoes worn around the edges. He tugged at his sleeves, trying to make himself smaller.
Aydan noticed.
"Just be yourself," he said gently.
Easy words—for someone who belonged here.
The front door opened into a warm, quiet living room.Framed photos lined the walls—holidays, graduations, smiling faces that had never learned to hide pain behind their smiles.
The house was quiet.
Not the silence Rayyan knew—not the silence of fear, waiting for anger—
but a safe one.
A silence that felt like rest.
Rayyan didn't know homes could feel like this.
A man stepped out from the study, wiping his hands on a towel. Simple shirt, simple slacks—yet something about him felt steady. Grounded.
Dr. Khair. Aydan's father.
"Ah, you must be Rayyan," he said, extending his hand.
His grip was firm. Not too strong. Not dismissive.
And he looked directly at Rayyan. Not around him. Not past him.
"Welcome," he said. "Aydan has told me about you."
Rayyan froze for a moment.
People didn't talk about him. People didn't remember him.
He bowed his head. "Thank you, sir."
"No need for that," Dr. Khair replied gently."Call me Uncle Khair."
Something in Rayyan's chest tightened.
Not pain. Not relief.
Something like warmth, sharp from unfamiliarity.
They sat.
Dr. Khair asked about school. About Rayyan's interests. About why he wanted engineering.
He listened.
Not out of politeness—but sincerity.
The way a teacher listens to a student they believe in. The way a father listens to a child with pride.
Rayyan answered carefully. Afraid of saying something wrong. Afraid of sounding ungrateful. Afraid of being too much or too little.
But Dr. Khair never once made him feel small.
Then she entered.
Madam Sofia.
Impeccably dressed. Composed like a portrait. Her steps soft. Her smile polite.
Her eyes… assessing.
"Ah, this is Rayyan?" she asked.
Not curiosity. Measurement.
"Yes," Dr. Khair replied warmly. "The boy I mentioned."
She nodded slowly, her gaze sliding over Rayyan. Not rude. Not unkind.
Just… precise.
"Where does your family stay, dear?" she asked.
Rayyan answered quietly.
She smiled.
A perfect smile.
A smile that hurt.
Rayyan suddenly became aware of everything:
• the frayed sleeve of his shirt• the scuffed edge of his shoes• the way his hands were folded too tightly in his lap
Shame did not stab. It settled.
Warm. Quiet. Heavy.
Dinner was served.
Rayyan ate carefully—too carefully. Afraid to spill. Afraid to chew too loudly. Afraid to exist too boldly.
Afterward, while he and Aydan walked to the living room, he heard voices from the dining area—soft, low, meant not to be heard.
Madam Sofia.
"Aydan… not everyone can follow us. Some people are meant to stay where they are."
No anger. No cruelty.Just a belief.
Soft. Reasonable.Deadly.
Dr. Khair didn't respond.
Maybe he had heard this many times.
Rayyan stood still.
The sentence didn't break him.
It simply settled.
Like a new weight placed slowly on the heart.
And in that moment, he understood:
Kindness could open the door—but the world behind it still did not believe he belonged.
He exhaled quietly. The breath shaky, but controlled.
Hope was still there. But now it had a crack in it.