In Another Life

Prologue

Safa

I lost faith in god years ago. How could a god, if one existed, torture its own creation like the god on my earth does? Hope? I buried that alongside my faith, convinced that miracles were nothing more than cruel illusions, tantalizing mirages to mock the naive. 

Yet, here I stand, watching all the convictions I had bitterly come to accept as truth, unraveling before me in the streets of downtown Toronto. And there he is—a mere step away—summoned from the depths of my most desperate dreams. The world around us blurs, the city's hum a distant echo, and at this moment, it feels as if some malevolent god, amused by my disbelief, has decided to play one final, twisted joke on me. 

It has to be him—this man has to be Azaan. But if it is, how can he not recognize me? How can he stand there, so close, yet so impossibly distant?  Or was I so unimportant to him that he has already forgotten my face? The very notion of him being here, now, defies the rules of the universe I thought I understood. Things like this happen in fairytales and pages of fiction, not in the unforgiving reality I had become accustomed to. Yet the resemblance is undeniable, his features hardened with age, but he is still the same Azaan that I—

"Miss, are you okay? I need you to respond so I can help you," his concerned voice—God, that voice — pulls me out of my thoughts, still laced with the soft German accent that soothed my fears all those years ago. "I just got the coffee, so it must have been hot. Are you hurt?"

"No, no I'm fine," I murmur, struggling to pull myself back to reality. "It wasn't too hot—the coffee, I mean..." My words come out disjointed, and I glance down at my coat, now stained by the warm liquid. The fabric of my fall coat had spared me from any real pain, but even if it hadn't, I doubt I would have noticed. The pain of a physical burn would be nothing compared to the ache of seeing him again and feeling so utterly unknown. I look into his eyes, looking to find some sense of familiarity, a sign of recognition but I find none.

"Oh, thank God," he sighs, relief softening his features. His eyes drift to my coat, concern lingering in them. "But it might stain. I can pay for the dry cleaning," he offers, reaching for his wallet as though he could somehow erase the past with a few dollars. His fingers grasp a bill, poised to make amends for the accident. 

"There's no need for that," my voice catches, "I can just throw it in the wash later," I say the words as if they matter, but they don't. Not really. 

"Oh. Well, that's good," he replies with an awkward smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Once again, I apologize for the spill, but I should probably get going." He looks at me, waiting for some sign of acknowledgment but I'm frozen, caught between the past and present, unable to find the words that could bridge the gap. Confusion flashes across his face when I remain silent. Eventually, he gives me an awkward nod and starts to turn away, his arm brushing mine as he does. 

I turn to watch him walk away as a longing that stretches across years threatens to consume me. 

This is my only chance, the only moment I have to reach out, to say something that might change everything—or nothing at all. Should I stop him? Ask for the dry cleaning, just to hold on to this moment a little longer. But that feels so desperate, so wrong when what I want is to cry out, to make him see me, to make him remember. Should I call out his name, break this delicate thread of fate that somehow brought us together again?

As impossible as it seems what if he turns around? What if he responds? 

What if, in this fleeting moment, I find myself back in the story I thought had ended?