I didn't sleep that night.
Not because I was afraid.
I just didn't know what to believe.
The photo was still open on my phone screen.
I zoomed in again.
Zayyen's sixteen-year-old face.
His father.
A man I didn't know yet.
And behind them,
a hospital sign.
Muzi Hospital.
The place where my mother had worked five years ago.
I stared at the words until my eyes felt tired.
A coincidence?
Maybe.
But after everything that had happened, I couldn't simply dismiss it as a coincidence.
I opened my gallery and searched for old family photos.
I found one of my mother from when she still worked at the hospital.
I zoomed in.
Part of the hospital corridor was visible behind her.
I compared the sign.
They weren't the same.
At least, from the angle of the photo I had, I couldn't be sure.
I sighed.
Don't jump to conclusions based on a single photo.
I remembered the advice my mother often gave me.
Feelings could make people see connections between things that had nothing to do with each other.
I had to find evidence.
Not the answer that was easiest to believe.
At 6:18 a.m., I left my room.
I found Mom preparing breakfast.
“Mom.”
“Hmm?”
“Do you still remember Muzi Hospital?”
Her hands paused for a moment.
Only for a moment.
Then they started moving again.
“Why?”
“You used to work there, right?”
“Yes.”
“About five years ago?”
Mom looked at me.
“Yes. Why?”
I wanted to show her the photo.
But I changed my mind.
“It's nothing. I just remembered.”
Mom gave me a small smile.
“Why do you suddenly remember the past?”
I shrugged.
“I don't know.”
Mom set breakfast on the table.
“Sit down. Eat first.”
I sat down.
But my thoughts were restless.
There was something in her reaction.
Not something that proved she was hiding anything.
Just a brief pause.
And I didn't want to turn one second of hesitation into evidence of guilt.
On campus, I contacted Zila.
We met in the library.
I showed her the photo that had been sent to me.
Zila studied it for a long time.
“This is definitely Muzi Hospital.”
“You're sure?”
“I've been there before.”
I nodded.
“The hospital itself isn't what I'm afraid of.”
“Then what?”
“I'm afraid all of this really is connected.”
Zila looked at me.
“We don't know that yet.”
“I know.”
“Then don't condemn your mother or Zayyen based only on suspicion.”
I gave her a small smile.
“You sound like me now.”
“Good.”
I laughed.
Then we looked at the photo again.
“Look at this.”
Zila pointed to the bottom of the image.
There was a date.
Faint.
I zoomed in.
August 15.
The year wasn't clear.
“Five years ago?”
“Maybe.”
I opened the old calendar on my phone.
If it really was five years ago, that date fell on a different day of the week.
I tried to match the information.
It wasn't enough.
I stared at the photo.
“So we still have way too many possibilities.”
Zila nodded.
“And way too few facts.”
I decided to go to the campus library archives.
Not to look for Zayyen.
I wanted to find information about the hospital.
It had once been my mother's workplace.
Maybe there were old news reports.
I opened several digital archives.
Local news.
Activity reports.
Old documents.
Nothing was directly relevant.
Until I found a short article.
“Hospital Administrator Questioned in Missing Financial Documents Case.”
I opened the article.
It was dated five years ago.
I read it slowly.
The hospital's name matched.
But the name of the person mentioned wasn't familiar.
I kept reading.
Then I found a name.
Haris Fadhlan.
I froze.
I read it again.
The name was right there.
Zayyen's uncle.
But the article didn't say he was guilty.
It only stated that he had once been questioned about missing financial documents.
I saved the article.
Then I read the next one.
There was no follow-up.
The case seemed to have simply stopped there.
I closed my laptop.
Now I had one fact.
Haris had indeed once been connected to the hospital.
But I still didn't know what his connection to my mother was.
And I couldn't turn that fact into an accusation.
At 2:45 p.m., Zayyen contacted me.
I answered immediately.
“Hello?”
“Hana.”
His voice was quiet.
“Are you okay?”
I stood up.
“Where are you?”
“At the hospital.”
My heart started beating faster.
“Which hospital?”
“Muzi Hospital.”
I fell silent.
Zayyen continued,
“I already left Uncle Haris's house.”
“What happened?”
“I can't explain everything over the phone.”
“Zayyen...”
“I found some documents.”
“What?”
“Documents about my father.”
I gripped the table.
“And?”
“There's something that doesn't make sense.”
“What?”
“Your mother's name is in them.”
I closed my eyes.
So I wasn't the only one who had found the connection.
“Zayyen, don't jump to conclusions.”
“I know.”
“I'm serious.”
“So am I.”
There was a pause.
“I'm not accusing your mother.”
I let out a relieved breath.
“I just want to know why her name is in my father's documents.”
I nodded even though he couldn't see me.
“Me too.”
“Do you know something?”
“Not yet.”
“Then let's find out.”
I fell silent.
The word we had appeared again.
But this time, it felt different.
It wasn't a word that made me happy.
It made me realize that this problem had drawn even closer to our lives.
“Zayyen.”
“Hmm?”
“Don't go anywhere alone.”
He gave a small laugh.
“Now you're the one saying that?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
“Promise?”
Silence.
“I'll be careful.”
I didn't force him to promise.
Because I knew people couldn't always keep their promises, even when they meant well.
“Okay.”
Before the call ended, Zayyen said,
“Hana.”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not immediately believing the person who sent that message.”
I fell silent.
“I don't necessarily believe you either.”
He gave a small laugh.
“That's better.”
“Why?”
“Because healthy trust doesn't mean believing without thinking.”
I smiled.
For a few seconds, everything felt simple again.
Until Zayyen said,
“I found another name in the documents.”
“Who?”
He didn't answer right away.
“Your father's name.”
I froze.
“My father?”
“Yes.”
The world seemed to go silent.
“My father never worked at a hospital.”
“I know.”
“Then why is his name there?”
“I don't know yet.”
I swallowed.
“Zayyen...”
“Hmm?”
“Do you think our parents knew each other?”
“I don't know.”
That answer felt even heavier.
“I'll find out.”
The call ended.
I remained standing.
I didn't move.
My father.
My mother's name.
Zayyen's father.
Haris.
The hospital.
Five years ago.
Everything was beginning to form a line.
But the line wasn't enough to become a story.
I needed one more fact.
That night, I went home.
Mom was sitting in the living room.
I stopped in the doorway.
“Mom.”
“Yes?”
“Did Dad ever know the Al-Abbas family?”
Mom didn't answer.
Her expression changed.
Not much.
But enough to tell me that my question wasn't ordinary.
“Hana...”
“You knew them?”
Mom lowered her head.
I didn't pressure her.
I sat beside her.
“I'm not accusing anyone.”
Mom remained silent.
“Mom, I just want to know.”
Several seconds passed.
Then Mom said,
“Your father once helped someone.”
“Who?”
“His friend.”
“Whose friend?”
Mom looked at me.
“Your father's friend.”
I waited.
“His name was Haris.”
My entire body turned cold.
So it was true.
They knew each other.
But I still didn't know how.
“Why have you never told me?”
“Because it was your father's business.”
“What did it have to do with the hospital?”
Mom sighed.
“Hana, there are things you shouldn't look into.”
I stared at her.
“Why?”
“Because you don't know who will get hurt if that past is opened again.”
I fell silent.
“Was Dad involved in Zayyen's father's death?”
Mom looked at me immediately.
“No.”
Her answer came too quickly.
I watched her face.
“Then why are you afraid?”
Mom shook her head.
“I'm not afraid.”
“Mom.”
“I just don't want you to get in too deep.”
I lowered my head.
“I'm already in too deep.”
Mom closed her eyes.
Then she said quietly,
“Your father once tried to help the Al-Abbas family.”
“With what?”
Mom didn't answer.
“Mom.”
“Money.”
I fell silent.
“Was it the same money?”
“I don't know.”
“You know something?”
“I don't know everything.”
I studied Mom's face.
For the first time, I realized that maybe she hadn't been hiding the truth all this time.
Maybe she had simply been holding on to a part of the past that was too painful to tell.
“If you know something that could help Zayyen...”
Mom cut me off.
“Don't.”
I fell silent.
“Why?”
“Because you don't know who you'll be up against.”
I stared at Mom.
“Up against?”
Mom fell silent at once.
I knew I had just heard something she hadn't meant to say.
“Who, Mom?”
There was no answer.
I stood up.
“You know Uncle Haris better than you've told me.”
Mom looked at me.
Then she said,
“Don't meet him.”
“Why?”
“Because five years ago, your father said the same thing.”
I froze.
“What?”
Mom looked at me, her eyes beginning to glisten.
“He said that if Haris ever came looking for you...”
Mom stopped.
“What did Dad say?”
Mom drew a breath.
“Never go with him.”
I couldn't say anything.
My father had apparently thought about this possibility before.
Before I knew Zayyen.
Before I learned Haris's name.
Before I received the first message.
The night grew late.
I went into my room.
I opened my phone.
There was one new message.
From Zayyen.
“Hana, I found the last document.”
I replied:
“What does it say?”
He started typing.
Stopped.
Started typing again.
Then a photo came through.
I opened it.
An old document.
There were three signatures.
The first belonged to Zayyen's father.
The second belonged to Haris.
And the third—
I recognized it.
I stared at the name until my eyes began to burn.
My father's name.
Below the three signatures, it said:
FAMILY PROTECTION AGREEMENT.
I read the date.
Five years ago.
Three days before Zayyen's father died.
I almost dropped my phone.
Then another message from Zayyen came in.
“I just realized something.”
A second message.
“My father wasn't borrowing money from Haris.”
I waited.
A third message appeared.
“They were trying to protect someone.”
I stared at the screen.
“Who?” I murmured.
As if answering my question, Zayyen sent one last message.
“I think that person was you.”
I froze.
I couldn't move.
Because suddenly, everything I'd thought was the beginning of a love story felt like part of a much older one.
And the biggest question was no longer:
Why did Zayyen come closer to me?
But rather—
had our meeting really been a coincidence?
TO BE CONTINUED — EPISODE 8