The Curtain Rises
These memories refuse to let her fade.My mind remains anchored to her, and my heart clings to her name as though it would drift away if it ever dared to let go.
I often find myself lost in daydreams of the life we could have shared.I see her walking toward me in white, her every step echoing through eternity. I imagine introducing her to my friends, their laughter wrapping around us like sunlight. I picture our vows, trembling between breaths — till death do us part, though I never believed it would be hers.
Michael stands beside me as my best man, Hayat radiant in a gown that catches the light like liquid gold. Abbu walks her down the aisle, his hand trembling with both pride and sorrow. My father stands across from me, eyes soft, finally at peace.
We'd wake every morning in each other's arms, her hair a quiet storm across my chest. I'd burn breakfast, and she'd laugh anyway — that laugh that made the world seem a little less cruel. We'd pray together, build a life not perfect but ours. And every day, I'd fall deeper, without fear, without end.
If only I could break free from this loneliness that feels like breath trapped inside glass. I'd rewrite destiny itself, defy the divine, even offer up my life to bring her back. If I'd known she was leaving, I would've given her my heartbeat in exchange for one more day.
Nothing compares to the agony of knowing she's truly gone.
And yet — tonight, she lives again.
On canvas.
The curtain rose.
And there she was.
Ayah Ferdous.
Her chestnut hair shimmered like molten sunlight; her eyes burned with the light of distant stars. Her smile — softer than forgiveness, sharper than longing — seemed to pull breath from the air. She held an iris, its petals caught between her fingers as if she were feeling the world for the first time.
Around her stretched a sea of color — hundreds of painted irises bending in a wind that didn't exist. Her dress shimmered with pearl and shadow, as if heaven had lent her its light for one final encore.
For a moment, she was alive again.
And I forgot to breathe.
No star could rival her brilliance. I still clutch her memory like a relic — trembling, sacred. Around others, I can pretend. I can smile, perform, even charm. But with her, I was real. With her, laughter wasn't sound; it was surrender.
Couldn't she have stayed just a little longer?
I fall in love with her each time I remember. Her absence healed nothing; the scars only deepened. Still, she smiles in memory, unbothered by the ruin she left behind.
As the curtain lifted, the hall erupted — a wave of light, applause, and flashbulbs. My father caught my gaze from the back, his lips forming the words well done. Hayat's tears shimmered. Abbu's pride filled the air. Michael stood like a monument — unreadable, unshaken, proud.
"Who was Ayah Ferdous?" they'll ask."Why did Alex Ardel take his own life?"
Questions. Always questions — as though love and grief can be dissected, explained, rationalized.
But they can't.Love defies reason.Grief doesn't answer.
Why couldn't she have stayed a little longer?
I never got to say goodbye. Losing Ayah didn't just break me — it hollowed me out. Alex's death cracked my mind; hers erased my soul. You don't survive that kind of loss. You just… continue breathing.
The reporter's voice sliced through my haze."Mr. Ardel," he repeated, irritation sharpened by curiosity. "Who is the woman in your painting?"
"Ayah Ferdous," I said — her name falling from my tongue like a prayer.
"And where is this place?"
I met his gaze briefly, then turned back to her painted smile."Nowhere," I said. "A place we dreamed of. Before we could ever go, she was already gone."
The air thickened. Even the cameras seemed to pause.Michael's hand brushed my shoulder — his silent way of saying, breathe.
Another reporter stood."Mr. Ardel, why were you absent for seven years while your father continued his work?"
"I needed time," I said simply.
"Seven years?"
I smiled faintly. "Grief doesn't keep time."
"Was it because of Alex?"
Before I could speak, Michael stepped forward, his tone calm but firm."Two questions per reporter. That's enough."
The murmurs faded. Flashbulbs cooled. The world went quiet again.
When it was over, I retreated to the penthouse — my sanctuary in the sky.Below me, the city shimmered, an ocean of light and loneliness. I poured myself a drink, the amber catching the chandelier's glow, and stood before the floor-to-ceiling window.
Despite the applause, the success, the noise — I felt empty.Like the world had given me everything except her.
My phone buzzed on the counter.
Dad.
I hesitated, then answered."Dad."
A low hum on the other end — the sound of him exhaling, papers rustling, city noise drifting faintly behind his voice.
"I saw you today," he said, his tone warm. Proud. "You were extraordinary."
"You told me that already," I murmured.
"Once wasn't enough." His voice softened. "You made her immortal, Aubrey. You gave her back to the world."
"She gave me back to myself," I whispered.
Silence stretched — gentle, fragile. Then he sighed."She fixed us."
"She did," I said quietly. "Without even trying."
"I stood there," he continued, "watching you — my son, not my successor — and for the first time, I thought… maybe Alex didn't leave me nothing. Maybe he left me you."
My throat tightened. "You've always had me, Dad."
He chuckled softly. "You didn't always believe that."
"You didn't always show it."
A pause, then, softer: "I didn't know how."
I smiled faintly, the ache warm this time. "She taught us both."
"She did," he murmured. "She'd be proud of you, Aubrey. She'd tell you to stop looking backward. To start living again."
"I'm trying."
"I know," he said. "And I'm proud of you for that too."
I closed my eyes. "Thank you."
"Aubrey," he added, voice quiet but firm, "you're more like her than you think."
I smiled again, tears threatening but welcome this time. "Then I'll take that as the highest compliment."
He laughed — quiet, wistful. Then, after a moment:"There's one more thing," he said, measured and deliberate. "Expect a guest tomorrow."
I frowned, half-smiling. "A guest?"
"Yes," he said, amusement threading his tone. "Someone you might want to meet. Don't refuse."
"You're not giving me much of a choice, are you?"
"No," he replied, warmth in his voice. "And you'll thank me later."
I laughed softly, shaking my head. "You haven't changed."
"I hope not entirely," he said. "Goodnight, son."
"Goodnight, Dad."
The line went still.
I lingered by the window, the city glowing beneath me — a constellation of strangers. My reflection hovered in the glass, fading into the skyline.
I turned back toward the painting — her painted smile still luminous, still alive.
"I could have anything," I whispered, "but all I want is you."
A cold breeze slipped through the half-open balcony doors, carrying the faint scent of irises that shouldn't exist.
"Snowflake," I murmured, voice trembling, "please come back."
And for a fleeting heartbeat — one stolen from eternity —I swear I felt her there.Breathing softly in the silence.