Morning showered my sleep with awakening. Still, some cold light made its way into my quills. The mountains outside the window were covered with fog, a rather infrequent phenomenon, but March was outside and it was the most inherent phenomenon for this time. I was waiting for nature to wake up. And yet unfinished business was spinning on my soul and conscience.
On my desk, I found a letter – thank you from (the merchants?) For sorting out the affairs at the port. so as a respectable and educated Shehzadeh, I should have answered this thank you as soon as possible. I quickly walked through the words with my eyes, the usual words of gratitude and praise, I have already heard these words many times and yet each time I had to answer them differently. I took a small sheet and brought out neat letters - "I am very pleased to hear these words, because it is my duty to serve the people and bring justice to our Padishah to Muslim lands." Subsequently, I put this message in an envelope. The hot paraffin touched the tip of the leaf and my personal seal was pressed to the paraffin. I looked at the letter from one of the merchants again and it seems that there was another message on the obverse of this piece of paper.
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Ficción histórica"The pain subsides, or simply gets lost amidst obligations and daily chores. However, there is a time when it returns to its rut. A time when others rejoice in the rebirth of nature, and I burn with the rebirth of pain. Only Allah can judge his deed...
