In Damascus, the House of Al-Zahra had become a place where time stood still. The paint peeled from the shutters, and the jasmine vines grew wild, choking the fountain until the water barely trickled.
Layla sat at her desk by the window. Her hair, once black as midnight, was now streaked with silver. Her face was lined, not by laughter, but by the gravity of a constant, silent grief.
She dipped her pen into the inkwell.
My Beloved Khalid,
The almond trees bloomed early this year. I watched the petals fall and imagined they were snow, like you once told me about in the stories of the North. I have kept the blue thread. It is frayed now, but it still holds the color of the sky.
I dream of you every night. In my dreams, you are riding through the gate. You are not old. You are not tired. You are the wind.
Do not forget me. I am still here. I am still the destination.
Yours, Layla.
She folded the paper. She sealed it with wax, pressing her thumb into the red drop.
She put on her veil and walked to the gate. The guards had changed over the years, but the system remained the same.
A young soldier, bored and leaning on his spear, watched her approach. He knew the routine. The "Mad Woman" wrote to a dead man, or a prisoner who might as well be dead.
"Another one, Auntie?" the soldier asked, holding out his hand.
Layla placed the letter in his palm. Then, she placed a silver coin on top of it. It was the last of her jewelry money. She had sold the silver tea set last month.
"For the courier," she whispered. "Make sure it goes to Akka. To the White Prison."
"Of course," the soldier said, pocketing the coin. "I will put it on the next caravan myself."
Layla nodded. She looked at him with eyes that were terrifying in their intensity. "Thank you. God sees your kindness."
She turned and walked back into the crumbling house.
The soldier watched her go. He waited until the heavy door clicked shut. Then, he sighed. He walked over to the small fire burning in the brazier where the guards warmed their tea.
"Crazy old bat," he muttered.
He tossed the letter into the flames.
He didn't read it. He never read them. He watched the paper curl. The wax seal melted, weeping red tears into the ash. The words of love, of hope, of ten years of waiting, turned to black smoke and drifted up into the Damascus sky, disappearing before they even reached the height of the walls.
In Akka, Khalid sat in the dark, waiting for a word that had already burned.