˙. ꕤ ｡˚𑣲𝄞
I read Zayyen’s message over and over.
> I think that person is you I didn’t know how to feel.
Afraid?
Angry?
Or did I actually want to laugh because everything sounded like a story far too complicated for real life?
I typed:
Hana: Why me?
The message was sent.
He didn’t reply right away.
I waited.
One minute.
Five minutes.
Ten minutes.
Then Zayyen answered.
Zayyen: I don’t know yet.
I sighed.
At least he wasn’t pretending to have an answer.
Hana: If you don’t know yet, don’t jump to conclusions.
His reply came a few seconds later.
Zayyen: I know.
Hana: Then why did you say it might be me?
A long pause.
Then:
Zayyen: Because your father’s name is on the same document as my father’s and my uncle’s.
I stared at the screen.
Hana: That doesn’t mean I’m the person they protected.
Zayyen: I know.
I stopped typing.
Something felt strange.
For the first time, I didn’t feel like Zayyen was trying to pull me into his problems.
Instead, it seemed like he was trying to make sure I didn’t reach the same conclusion he had.
I wrote:
Hana: We’ll talk in person tomorrow.
A few seconds later:
Zayyen: Okay.
I turned off my phone.
But before I went to sleep, one question remained in my mind.
If all of this had started five years ago, why had I only met Zayyen now?
I didn’t know yet.
And I had no idea that the answer to that question would make me see our first meeting differently.
MORNING
I arrived on campus early.
I didn’t tell Zila about everything that had happened.
Not because I didn’t trust her.
I just wanted to make sure of the facts before making someone else worry too.
Zayyen was already waiting in the garden behind the library.
He stood there holding a folder.
When he saw me, he didn’t smile right away.
“I’m sorry.”
I stopped.
“For what?”
“For dragging you into this.”
I sat on the bench.
“I don’t know yet whether I was dragged into this or whether I’ve been part of it from the beginning.”
Zayyen sat a short distance away from me.
“That’s what I want to find out.”
I looked at the folder in his hand.
“That document?”
He nodded.
“This is a copy I can take with me.”
“Can I see it?”
Zayyen handed it to me.
I read the first page.
There were three names.
Zayyen’s father.
Haris.
My father.
Underneath them, it said:
FAMILY PROTECTION AGREEMENT.
I read the next section.
There was no full name for the person being protected.
Only one code.
A-15.
I looked at Zayyen.
“What’s A-15?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then how can you conclude that it’s me?”
Zayyen took out another document.
“Because there’s a date of birth.”
I looked at it.
That date.
I froze.
It was my date of birth.
I read it again.
Impossible.
I looked at Zayyen.
“This…”
“Yeah.”
“Why is my date of birth on your father’s document?”
“I want to know that too.”
I closed the folder.
My chest felt heavy.
For a while, we sat in silence.
I didn’t know what frightened me more.
That my name was in that document
or that someone had known I existed before I even knew Zayyen.
“Hana.”
“Hmm?”
“I don’t want you to be afraid.”
I gave a small laugh.
“I’m already afraid.”
Zayyen lowered his head.
“I’m sorry.”
I looked at him.
“Stop apologizing for something you may not have done.”
He fell silent.
I continued,
“If we want to find out the truth, we have to separate three things.”
“What?”
“What we know. What we suspect. And what we’re afraid of.”
Zayyen looked at me.
I pointed to the document.
“What we know: my date of birth is here.”
He nodded.
“What we suspect: your father and my father once tried to protect someone.”
“Yeah.”
“What we’re afraid of: that I’m the person they protected.”
Zayyen gave a faint smile.
“You’re right.”
“So don’t turn fear into fact.”
I didn’t know why that sentence made Zayyen look a little calmer.
Maybe he, too, had needed someone to remind him that not everything had to be solved immediately.
A NAME
“There’s one more thing,” Zayyen said.
“What?”
“I found the doctor’s name.”
“The doctor?”
“The doctor who treated my father on his final night.”
I looked at him.
“Does he still work at the hospital?”
“No.”
“Where is he now?”
“I don’t know.”
I frowned.
“Then how are we going to find him?”
Zayyen pulled out a slip of paper.
An address.
“This is the last address on record.”
I read it.
The address was in the same city.
Not too far away.
“Should we go?”
Zayyen immediately shook his head.
“No.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to take you somewhere we don’t know.”
I almost smiled.
“Do you remember what you said?”
“What?”
“That if we’re looking for the truth, we have to be careful.”
Zayyen nodded.
“That’s right.”
“Then we can’t keep doing everything on our own.”
He looked at me.
“Then what?”
“We gather information first.”
“From whom?”
I thought for a moment.
Then I remembered something.
“Mom.”
Zayyen fell silent.
“Your mother?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“I’ll ask her.”
Zayyen sighed.
“Should I come with you?”
I immediately shook my head.
“No.”
He looked surprised.
“Why?”
“Because if you come, Mom might shut down.”
Zayyen nodded slowly.
“Makes sense.”
I stood up.
“I’ll talk to her tonight.”
Zayyen stood too.
“Hana.”
“Yes?”
“If it turns out our parents really were involved in something…”
He stopped.
“I want you to know that whatever happened five years ago isn’t your responsibility.”
I looked at him.
“Yours either.”
“What?”
“If your father made a mistake, that doesn’t mean you have to pay for it for the rest of your life.”
Zayyen didn’t answer.
I looked into his eyes.
Something had changed.
For the first time, he didn’t look like a man who was always trying to be strong.
He looked like someone who had spent too long feeling responsible for something he hadn’t even chosen.
“Thank you,” he said.
I smiled.
“You’re welcome.”
We walked back toward the campus building.
Not too close together.
There was no need to be.
But for the first time, I felt like we were walking in the same direction.
MOM
That night, I waited until Mom finished work.
When she came home, I had already prepared tea.
Mom looked at me.
“What is it?”
“I want to ask you something.”
Mom sat down.
“About what?”
I placed a photograph on the table.
A photo of the document Zayyen had given me.
Mom’s expression changed instantly.
She didn’t touch it.
“Where did you get this?”
“From someone.”
“Zayyen?”
I fell silent.
Mom sighed.
“So you already know him.”
“Yeah.”
“Since when?”
“A few weeks ago.”
Mom lowered her head.
I watched her.
“Mom.”
“Hmm?”
“Is A-15 me?”
Mom didn’t answer.
I felt my heart beating faster.
“Mom.”
She rubbed her face.
“I don’t know what Haris did with that document.”
“But you know about the code.”
Mom looked at me.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Mom took a long breath.
“Because five years ago, your father asked me to keep a document.”
“What document?”
“A document about someone who was in danger.”
I froze.
“Who?”
Mom didn’t answer right away.
“Mom.”
Finally, she said,
“A child.”
I waited.
“Whose child?”
Mom stared at me for a long time.
Then tears began to fall.
“A child your father was afraid would be used to punish adults for their mistakes.”
I didn’t understand.
“Was that child me?”
Mom shook her head.
I grew even more confused.
“If it wasn’t me, why is my date of birth on the document?”
Mom closed her eyes.
“Because that wasn’t the protected person’s date of birth.”
I fell silent.
“Then what date was it?”
Mom opened her eyes.
“The date your father saved you for the first time.”
I felt my body go cold.
“What?”
Mom picked up the photograph.
“Five years ago, you almost became part of something you never knew about.”
I tried to remember.
Five years ago.
I was still fifteen.
I remembered school.
Home.
Dad.
Mom.
But there was one night that was especially hazy in my memory.
A night when Dad came home late.
A night when Mom cried in the kitchen.
And the next morning,
I never saw Dad again.
I looked at Mom.
“Why don’t I remember?”
Mom cried harder.
“Because your father asked us not to tell you.”
“Why?”
“Because you were too young.”
I stood up.
“Mom, what happened that night?”
Mom looked at me.
“Your father brought you home from the hospital.”
I froze.
“What?”
“You passed out.”
“Why?”
Mom shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
“But you were at the hospital.”
“Yes.”
“And Zayyen’s father was there too?”
Mom didn’t answer.
That was answer enough.
I sat back down.
So that night,
my father.
My mother.
The hospital.
Zayyen’s father.
They had all been in the same place.
But I still didn’t know why.
I covered my face with both hands.
“I want to know everything.”
Mom took my hand.
“Not everything has to be known tonight.”
I looked at her.
“Why?”
“Because some truths require courage to accept.”
I fell silent.
Then Mom said softly,
“There’s one thing you need to know.”
“What?”
“Never think that your father left you because he chose to go.”
My chest tightened.
“Dad didn’t leave us?”
Mom shook her head.
“No.”
“Then?”
Mom didn’t answer.
She only opened a small drawer in the table.
She took out an old envelope.
And handed it to me.
The name on the front made my hands tremble.
For Alya, if you ever meet a child from the Abbas family.
I looked at Mom.
“Why did Dad write this?”
Mom cried.
“Because your father already knew that one day you might meet Zayyen.”
I slowly opened the envelope.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
Dad’s handwriting.
I read the first sentence.
> “Hana, if you’re reading this letter, it means someone from our past has returned.”
I stopped.
My hands trembled.
Then I read the next sentence.
> “Don’t hate that boy for a sin he never committed.”
I closed my eyes.
Zayyen.
His father.
The past.
Everything felt closer and closer.
But before I could read any further, my phone rang.
Zayyen.
I answered it.
“Hello?”
There was no answer.
“Zayyen?”
I heard him breathing.
Then his voice.
Very softly.
“Hana…”
“Yeah?”
“I just found out something.”
“What?”
“The person Uncle Haris has been looking for all this time…”
He stopped.
I waited.
“…isn’t you.”
I let out a relieved breath.
But before I could ask who, Zayyen continued:
“That person is your father.”
I froze.
And his next sentence made the entire letter in my hands feel even heavier.
“Hana, it turns out your father didn’t die five years ago.”
I couldn’t breathe.
Mom immediately looked at me.
And from her expression,
I knew Zayyen hadn’t misheard anything.
For the first time in five years, my father’s name had become part of our lives again.
Not as a memory.
Not as a photograph.
But as someone who might—
still be alive.
—TO BE CONTINUED IN EPISODE 8—