I stared at the photo of myself for almost a minute.
I didn't know when it had been taken.
I didn't even know who had taken it.
What scared me most wasn't that someone knew what I looked like.
It was that the photo looked new.
I was wearing the clothes I'd worn two days ago.
That meant someone didn't just know where I was.
Someone had been watching me.
I immediately locked my bedroom door.
Then I checked the window.
The curtains.
The hallway.
There was no one there.
I sat back down on the edge of the bed.
My hand was still gripping my phone.
I opened the conversation with that number.
There was no profile picture.
No name.
No information at all.
Just messages deliberately written to make me wonder.
I almost replied.
But then I remembered one thing.
Don't panic before you know the truth.
I set my phone down.
Then I took a deep breath.
I couldn't let fear make me act recklessly.
I had two choices.
Call Zayyen.
Or keep everything to myself.
I knew the first choice made more sense.
But before I could type, my phone rang.
Zayyen.
I answered immediately.
“Hello?”
There was no answer for several seconds.
“Zayyen?”
“Hana...”
His voice sounded heavy.
“Where are you?”
“At my boarding house.”
“Don't go outside.”
I stood up immediately.
“Why?”
“I'm serious.”
The tone of his voice made me stop.
“What happened?”
“I'm taking care of something.”
“Uncle Haris?”
Silence.
“How do you know his name?”
“He called you earlier.”
“Hana...”
“I got a photo too.”
Silence again.
“You got what?”
“A photo of myself.”
Zayyen's breathing changed.
“Don't send it to anyone.”
“I haven't.”
“Good.”
“Zayyen, who did this?”
“I don't know yet.”
“Are you sure?”
“I won't lie about that.”
I closed my eyes.
“Then what am I supposed to do?”
Zayyen didn't answer right away.
“For now, don't go anywhere alone.”
I was about to argue.
But he continued,
“It's not because I think you can't take care of yourself.”
I fell silent.
“It's because I know you can. But this time, you don't know who you're dealing with.”
His words left me speechless.
“And one more thing.”
“What?”
“Don't believe everything you hear about me.”
I frowned.
“Even what you tell me yourself?”
Zayyen fell silent.
Then he answered quietly,
“Even what I tell you.”
The call ended.
I was still holding my phone.
His words didn't make me feel safer.
Quite the opposite.
If even Zayyen was telling me not to believe everything I heard, how was I supposed to tell the truth from a lie?
The next morning, I skipped class.
Not because I was afraid.
I just wanted to think.
I asked Zila for her notes and spent most of the morning in my room.
But the harder I tried to stop thinking about the problem, the more questions came to me.
Who was Uncle Haris?
Why was he paying for Zayyen's college tuition?
Why did some people believe he was connected to Zayyen's father's death?
And strangest of all,
why had someone sent me a photo?
I opened the photo again.
Then zoomed in on the background.
There was a small building behind me.
I recognized the place.
The campus library.
I zoomed in again.
In the corner of the photo, I could see a bulletin board.
There was a date for a campus event.
I went still.
The photo hadn't been taken somewhere unfamiliar.
It had been taken on campus.
I grabbed my bag.
If someone had taken the photo there, maybe something had been left behind.
I didn't know what.
But I wanted to see the place.
The library was fairly crowded.
I headed to the second floor.
The place where the photo might have been taken.
I opened my gallery.
Then matched the angle of the room.
The window.
The bulletin board.
The table.
Everything matched.
I stood more or less where the photographer had stood.
Then I looked in the opposite direction.
A security camera.
I stared at it for a while.
If the photo had been taken from here, then the person who took it had been standing not far from the camera.
I stepped back.
Then someone called my name.
“Hana?”
I turned.
Zayyen.
I was startled.
“What are you doing here?”
He walked closer.
“I should be asking you that.”
“I'm looking for something.”
“What?”
I didn't answer right away.
I showed him the photo on my phone.
Zayyen's expression changed immediately.
“Why did you come here alone?”
“I didn't do anything.”
“Hana.”
“I just wanted to find out where this photo was taken.”
Zayyen rubbed his face.
“You should've told me.”
“I don't want to keep waiting for you every time something happens.”
He fell silent.
I continued,
“I'm not someone you have to protect by hiding everything from me.”
Zayyen looked at me.
“I know.”
“No. You don't.”
I took a breath.
“If you keep telling me to stay away without explaining anything, I'll just keep drawing more conclusions on my own.”
He didn't answer.
I looked at him.
“So I'm asking you one more time.”
“What?”
“Who is Uncle Haris?”
Zayyen turned his face away.
“He's my father's younger brother.”
I fell silent.
“Your actual uncle?”
“Yes.”
“Then why is he paying for your tuition?”
“Because after my father died, he felt responsible.”
“And you trust him?”
Zayyen was silent.
That question turned out to be harder than I'd expected.
“I don't know.”
I was startled.
“You don't know?”
“I used to trust him.”
“And now?”
“Now I'm starting to question everything.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
Zayyen pulled something from his bag.
A thin folder.
He opened it.
Inside were several old documents.
“These are my father's letters.”
I skimmed them.
There were dates.
Signatures.
Several names.
Then I saw something.
Uncle Haris's name appeared over and over.
“What is this?”
“Transactions.”
“With your father?”
“Yes.”
I read more carefully.
The date of the last transaction was three days before Zayyen's father died.
I looked at Zayyen.
“You already knew about this?”
“I only found out a few months ago.”
“Why only now?”
“Because I never looked.”
“Why not?”
Zayyen gave a bitter smile.
“When you lose someone you love, sometimes you don't want to learn things that might change your last memories of them.”
I couldn't answer.
The words felt too human.
Too real.
They weren't the words of someone playing the role of a mysterious man.
They were the words of a son still trying to accept his father's death.
I looked at the documents again.
“So you still don't know what happened that night.”
“Not yet.”
“Do you want to find out?”
Zayyen looked at me.
“I have to.”
“Why?”
“Because I've spent five years living with a story other people gave me.”
He closed the folder.
“I thought my father died of an illness.”
“And then?”
“A few months ago, I found a letter from a doctor.”
I looked at him.
“What kind of letter?”
Zayyen took out a sheet of paper.
“This letter says my father didn't have a medical history that should have caused his death that night.”
My chest felt heavy.
“So...”
“I don't know.”
He shook his head.
“I don't want to accuse anyone without proof.”
I nodded.
For the first time, I saw something very important about Zayyen.
He wasn't looking for someone to blame.
He was looking for the truth.
And that made me respect him even more.
We sat at one of the library tables.
Not too close.
There was no touching.
No conversation that crossed any boundaries.
Just two people trying to understand a past that was too heavy for one person to carry.
I opened one of the letters.
“Zayyen.”
“Hmm?”
“Why did Uncle Haris suddenly contact you yesterday?”
“I don't know.”
“What did he say?”
“He asked me to come to his house.”
“What for?”
Zayyen looked at the letter in his hand.
“He said he'd found something that belonged to my father.”
I fell silent.
“And?”
“I haven't picked it up.”
“Why not?”
“Because I want to know what he has first.”
I nodded.
Suddenly, Zayyen glanced at the time.
“I have to go.”
“To Uncle Haris's house?”
“Yes.”
I stood up.
“Alone?”
Zayyen looked at me.
“Why?”
“If he's really keeping something about your father, you need to be careful.”
“I'll be fine.”
I looked at him.
“You said the same thing to me earlier.”
He fell silent.
I continued,
“Don't do something you wouldn't let someone else do.”
Zayyen smiled faintly.
“You're getting pretty good at arguing.”
“Because you're starting to annoy me.”
He gave a small laugh.
For a few seconds, the mood felt lighter.
Then his expression changed.
“Hana.”
“Yes?”
“If something happens...”
“Don't tell me to stay away.”
He fell silent.
I looked at him.
“You've used that line too many times already.”
Zayyen sighed.
“If something happens, call Zila. Don't call me.”
I frowned.
“Why?”
“Because if I can't answer...”
He stopped.
“...at least someone else will know what condition you're in.”
I looked at him.
This time, he couldn't hide the fear in his eyes.
I nodded.
“Okay.”
Zayyen left.
I watched him until he disappeared behind the door.
I didn't know why.
But for the first time, I felt that something about his leaving was different this time.
Like someone walking toward something he might not be able to avoid.
It was late afternoon, nearing evening.
I was in my room when my phone rang.
Zila.
I answered.
“Yeah?”
“Hana, where are you?”
“At my boarding house.”
“Has Zayyen contacted you?”
“Not yet. Why?”
Zila fell silent.
Then she said,
“I just got a message from an unknown number.”
I sat up straight.
“What did it say?”
Zila read it slowly.
“It says...”
She stopped.
“What does it say?”
“If you still want Zayyen to come home tonight, don't let Hana find out about her mother.”
The world seemed to stop.
“What?”
“I don't understand it either.”
I stood up.
“What number?”
Zila told me the number.
I compared it to the number that had sent me the photo.
They were different.
I felt something cold spread through my body.
“Listen.”
“Yeah?”
“Don't reply to that number.”
“Why?”
“Because I think they want us to panic.”
Zila was silent.
“Then what are we supposed to do?”
I looked at the folder Zayyen had given me.
Then I remembered something.
One of the documents had Zayyen's mother's name on it.
And beneath it was an old address.
I grabbed my bag.
“Hana?”
“I'm going to look for something.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“Don't go alone.”
I stopped.
Zila was right.
I couldn't make the same mistake again.
“I'll call you.”
“Don't leave before I get there.”
I nodded.
The call ended.
I sat back down.
For several minutes, I just stared at the folder.
Then I saw a sheet of paper I'd missed earlier.
A small note written in old handwriting.
There was only one sentence:
“If something happens to me, don't entrust the children's safety to Haris.”
I froze.
I read it again.
This time, I recognized the handwriting.
Zayyen had shown me his father's handwriting before.
It was the same handwriting.
My heart began to pound faster.
That meant Zayyen's father had suspected Haris.
Long before he died.
I quickly took a picture of the document.
But before I could send it to Zila,
my phone chimed.
A message came in.
From Zayyen.
Just three words.
“Hana, don't trust him.”
I stared at the screen.
A second message came in.
“I'm at Uncle Haris's house.”
Then a third message.
“He said something about your mother.”
My hand froze.
My mother?
Why was my mother's name suddenly coming up?
Before I could reply, Zayyen's call came in.
I answered.
“Zayyen?”
There was no answer.
“Zayyen!”
I heard something fall.
Then someone's breathing.
Very quiet.
Then Zayyen's voice, almost a whisper:
“Hana...”
“Yes!”
“If I don't contact you again tonight...”
His voice cut off.
I stood up.
“Zayyen, where are you?”
Silence.
Then I heard another man's voice in the distance.
A voice I'd never heard in person.
But somehow, it felt familiar.
“Give me the phone.”
The call disconnected.
I stared at the screen.
The call had ended.
No more messages.
No more calls.
I tried calling him.
Unavailable.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
There was no answer.
I closed my eyes.
And for the first time since all of this began, I realized the problem had crossed the boundary between the past and the present.
I wasn't just trying to find out who Zayyen was anymore.
I was trying to find out what connection my family had to his.
And that night, a possibility I'd never once considered began to take shape.
What if the reason someone was telling me to stay away from Zayyen wasn't because Zayyen was dangerous?
What if, instead...
I was part of the reason all of this was happening?
I opened the old photo I'd been sent again.
I zoomed in on the man standing beside Zayyen.
This time, I noticed something behind him.
A sign.
Tiny lettering I hadn't noticed before.
I zoomed in on the image again.
And my blood ran cold.
Because the sign bore the name of a place I knew very well.
The name of the hospital where my mother had worked five years ago.
I dropped my phone.
My entire body went numb.
Five years ago.
Zayyen.
His father.
Uncle Haris.
My mother.
All those names had suddenly converged at the same point.
And I still didn't know the truth.
But that night, I began to understand one thing:
maybe the reason Zayyen had been brought together with me wasn't simply because of an empty seat in class.
— TO BE CONTINUED IN EPISODE 7 —