"Some journeys don't begin with a step, but with the weight of an untold story, hanging between silence and fate."
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In a land where whispers of the past intertwine with the present
Sania, a soul adrift, seeks...
"Raise your words, not voice. It is rain that grows flowers, not thunder."
Rumi
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"How far have you gotten, Haqan?"
Hassan, sitting in the car, asks while looking ahead at the road, his expression serious.
"I had my exams, so there was a bit of a delay. I'll open the laptop soon,"
Haqan says, gesturing toward the laptop Hassan had brought him a few days ago.
Hassan had gone back to the house where Sania had been kept. After carefully inspecting everything, he finally discovered the secret room. Now, he understood where the person had disappeared that day. During the search, he found a locked laptop, but it was secured in a special way, so he couldn't unlock it himself.
"I've been hearing the same thing for days. If you can't do it, let me know, and I'll get someone else to unlock it."
"I'll unlock it, man. It's just going to take some time," Haqan says, his voice a mix of reassurance and uncertainty as he sits on his bed, absently running a hand through his hair.
Hassan exhales deeply, his fingers tapping impatiently on the steering wheel. A crease forms on his forehead, the weight of the situation pressing down on him.
"Fine... just hurry up," he says, his tone firm and unyielding.
On the other end, Haqan nods, though he knows Hassan can't see him. He glances at the laptop beside him, feeling the pressure intensity.
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Hassan is standing at the receiving end of the airport. Nour's flight has been delayed for some reason. He is staring aimlessly at something, but his mind and thoughts are elsewhere. Memories from the past are playing in his head like scenes from a movie.
"Hassan, do you even realize what you're doing?"
Nour sits on the other side of the table, her face a mix of surprise and concern. Her brow furrows as she watches him, searching his expression for any sign of doubt.
"I can’t control it...."
His voice is weak, almost helpless, as if he’s trying to explain an emotion that feels beyond his control. Nour studies his face, her gaze soft but unwavering.
"I can’t stop thinking about her. She won’t leave my mind."
Hassan leans back in his chair, closing his eyes as if the weight of his thoughts is too much to bear.
"Then go and tell her," Nour suggests with a patience born from familiarity. But she already knows the truth—he won’t, and even if he does, the answer won’t be what he hopes for.
