Chapter 2: A Boy Raised in Darkness
The stairs felt heavier with every step Ibrahim took.
His son—his only son—had just walked away from him as if he was nothing but a stranger passing through the building.
And maybe… that was exactly what he was.
He reached the rooftop slowly, his legs trembling.
The door was half open, the wind pushing it back and forth, making a tired creak with every movement.
Inside the small rooftop room, Ibrahim saw her.
His mother.
Old.
Thinner than he remembered.
Her back curved like a question mark.
She turned at the sound of his footsteps.
Her hand flew to her mouth.
"Ibrahiiiiim?!"
Her voice cracked like something inside her broke.
He managed a weak smile before she threw her arms around him.
"My son… my son… they finally let you go… oh God…"
She hugged him like she was trying to pull the seven years out of him.
He hugged her back, but his eyes were on the door.
Waiting for Malek.
Waiting for the boy who ran up the stairs and left him behind.
His mother wiped her eyes and sat down on the worn-out mattress.
"I didn't tell him about you," she said softly.
"I didn't want him to grow up hoping for something he couldn't have."
Ibrahim swallowed.
"Why didn't you tell me he was blind?"
His mother looked away.
Because the question was a wound.
And the truth was worse.
"It happened slowly," she said.
"When you were inside… he fell once. Then twice. Then more. His eyes couldn't handle the infections. The doctor said the damage was deep."
Ibrahim felt his knees weaken.
"He walks with his hands," she continued.
"He listens to footsteps… to breaths… to silence. He knows the rooftop better than anyone. Sometimes I forget he is blind."
Ibrahim closed his eyes tightly.
Blind.
His son was blind and he wasn't there.
Not for the first fall.
Not for the infections.
Not for the days Malek cried himself to sleep in a world without colors.
He wasn't there for anything.
Suddenly, small careful footsteps entered the room.
Malek.
He stopped at the doorway, his head slightly tilted, listening to the breathing inside.
"I heard crying," the boy said quietly.
Ibrahim wiped his face instantly and looked away.
His mother tried to answer, but Malek lifted a hand gently.
"No, not you."
He turned his covered eyes toward Ibrahim.
"I heard him."
Ibrahim opened his mouth, but no words came.
Malek walked forward until he stood a single step away from him.
He raised his hand again—slowly, hesitantly—and touched Ibrahim's chest.
His fingers pressed lightly.
"…Your heart is loud," Malek whispered.
Ibrahim felt something break inside him.
"I'm sorry," he said, voice thick with guilt.
"I'm sorry for every day I wasn't here."
Malek lowered his hand.
"But you're here now," he said.
"Are you staying… or leaving again?"
The question killed him.
"I'm staying," Ibrahim said immediately.
"No matter what happens. I'm staying."
Malek didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Just breathed.
Then he said:
"…We'll see."
The boy turned and walked toward the tiny window where the wind pushed against the cloth covering his eyes.
Ibrahim watched him—small, fragile, brave.
A child raised in darkness.
And then…
From outside the rooftop door, a voice shouted:
"Malek! Are you ready? Don't forget the recording!"
Ibrahim stiffened.
"What recording?" he whispered.
Malek didn't turn around.
He simply said:
"The video… the one everyone is talking about."
Ibrahim's heart dropped.
"What video?"
Malek finally faced him—though he couldn't see him—and said in a quiet, steady voice:
"The video where I fight."