The Guest
The hallway was still when I arrived.Too still — the kind of quiet that hums beneath the skin, heavy with questions and unspoken warnings.
The air smelled faintly of snow and old wood polish, the sort of winter scent that clings to luxury apartments and lonely lives. Outside, the wind sighed against the glass windows, but in here, even time seemed to hesitate.
My father's bodyguards stood on either side of the corridor, immaculate in their dark coats, their faces unreadable. They nodded as I passed, stepping aside so I could reach my door.
The cake box in my hand was warm, the scent of vanilla and sugar rising through the chill, softening the bite of cold air. My fingers had numbed despite the gloves; the key slipped once before finding the lock.
No voices. No movement. No guest.
Confusion stirred low in my chest. My father was many things — distant, exacting, relentless — but never careless. If he said someone would be waiting, someone would be.
The key turned. The click echoed through the corridor like a note struck too sharply.
When I pushed the door open, a quiet murmur reached me — the sound of a television, low and steady, wrapping the room in an unfamiliar voice. I froze in the doorway.
Someone was there.
On the sofa, legs crossed and perfectly at home, sat a man watching the news with a glass of water in his hand.
"Kais?"
He turned, that unmistakable grin spreading across his face — half mischief, half warmth. "Hey," he said easily, as though this were his place and not mine.
I blinked, stepping inside and setting the cake on the counter. "Weren't you supposed to be interviewing someone abroad?"
He stood, smoothing invisible creases from his sleeve. "I am interviewing someone," he said with mock gravity. Then, more lightly, "And before you scold me, yes — I used the spare key under the rug. Terrible hiding spot, by the way."
I stared at him. "You broke into my apartment?"
"Not broke in," he corrected smoothly, wandering toward the counter with that familiar ease. "Invited myself in. There's a difference."
His eyes fell to the cake box. "That for me?"
"Not a chance," I replied. "I'm expecting someone."
He grinned. "What if that someone is me?"
The words hung between us for a moment, absurd and entirely plausible.
"You're the guest my father mentioned?" I asked slowly.
"Bingo."
I exhaled through my nose, rubbing the bridge of it. "You're here to interview me?"
He gave a small bow. "The honour's all mine."
I sank onto the nearest chair, shaking my head. "Of course he sent you. Who else would he trust to get the truth out of me?"
"Exactly," Kais said, leaning casually against the counter. "But relax — it's not an interrogation. It's a conversation."
"The last thing I need," I muttered, "is another conversation about the past."
He looked at me then, expression softening, the teasing replaced by something quieter. "The past made you, Ardel. You can't outrun it."
He reached for a knife, cut himself a piece of cake, and took a deliberate bite, ignoring my glare. "You should really start locking your fridge, by the way," he said, licking frosting from his finger.
I arched a brow. "How do you stay in shape when you eat like that?"
"Are you calling me fat?"
"I didn't say that."
"You implied it."
"You inferred it," I countered.
He laughed — a deep, familiar laugh that filled the apartment. It startled something alive in me. The sound carried echoes of her — that same unrestrained brightness Ayah used to have.
Kais dropped back onto the sofa, stretching his arms along the backrest. "Alright," he said, "let's talk business. The interview could help — your art, your story, your career. People know your name, but not your truth. This is your chance."
I raised a brow. "You make it sound like a confession."
"Maybe it is," he said quietly. There was no smugness this time, only sincerity — the kind that doesn't ask permission to hurt.
It struck me then — this wasn't just work for him. It was penance. A brother chasing the ghost of the sister he'd lost.
He reached into his satchel, pulling out a small camera and a notebook. The pages were dense with notes, words circled and crossed out, coffee stains smudging the edges. He skimmed them once, frowned, and tossed the notebook onto the table.
"These questions are garbage," he muttered.
I smirked. "You wrote them."
"Exactly. And I already regret it." He started pacing, muttering to himself. "This isn't how I want to tell her story."
"Then stop trying to script it," I said softly. "She never lived by anyone's script."
He froze. For a moment, the air stilled — and then a slow smile curved his lips. "You're right," he said quietly.
"I usually am."
He shot me a look. "Still insufferable, I see."
"Old habits."
He exhaled, half a laugh, half a sigh. "Fine. No questions. We'll just talk."
"Good," I said, pushing off the counter. "Call me when you're ready."
"Wait — where are you going?"
"To think."
He muttered something about dramatic Ardels under his breath as I disappeared down the hall.
My room greeted me like an old friend — dim, cluttered, unchanged. The air smelled faintly of turpentine, ash, and cold coffee. My desk lamp flickered to life, spilling amber light across scattered sketches and forgotten sheet music.
The silence here wasn't empty — it was alive, haunted by echoes. I could almost hear the faint hum of a violin, the brush sliding across canvas, the laughter that once filled this room.
Now, it was a mausoleum of unfinished thoughts.
I traced a finger along the edge of an old composition — Alex's handwriting still scribbled in the margins, the loops sharp and confident. His laughter seemed to hover somewhere in the air, faint but not gone.
"Why?" I whispered to no one.
Why had he done it? Why hadn't I seen it coming?
If I had asked — How does your soul feel, Alex? — maybe he would have told me. Maybe I would have listened.
But I hadn't. Michael and I had told him to "stay strong," to "tough it out," as if strength were the cure for despair. We had taught him to wear his pain like armor until it crushed him.
Grief is a strange tutor. It teaches you to see beauty in what's broken, to hear meaning in silence. It refines you, strips you down until you see yourself naked in the mirror — frail, flawed, human.
If only I had told him that.
I sank into the chair, the leather cold against my back. The hum of the heater filled the quiet, steady and low, like a heartbeat. Outside, snow fell against the window in slow spirals — soft, endless, soundless.
In the stillness, my thoughts unfurled.Without pain, there is no reflection.Without loss, there is no love.
The truth hurt because it was simple.
I had just closed my eyes when the door flew open with a sudden bang.
"I've got it!"
Kais's voice split the silence. He stood in the doorway, grinning, snow still clinging to his coat collar.
I didn't look up. "Ever heard of knocking?"
He ignored the jab. "I know what I'm going to ask," he said, the excitement in his voice almost boyish.
"Oh, this should be good," I muttered.
He stepped closer, his grin fading into something steadier. "I'm going to ask you about the truth of your heart."
I looked up. The words hit harder than I expected.
"The truth of my heart?"
He nodded. "That's what matters. Not fame. Not tragedy. You. What's left of you after everything else is gone."
There was no mockery in his tone — just quiet conviction, threaded with the ache of understanding.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The city lights spilled through the window, reflecting off the snow, painting him in silver and gold. I saw it then — Ayah's light in his eyes. The same stubborn warmth, the same defiant hope.
"The truth of my heart," I echoed, the words tasting like confession.
"You haven't asked yourself that, have you?" he asked gently.
"No," I admitted. "I've been afraid to."
Kais's gaze softened. "Then maybe it's time you weren't."
He walked past me, setting the small camera on the coffee table. The red light blinked to life, steady and patient. He adjusted the focus, then took his seat across from me.
The hum of the city faded. Snow whispered against the windows. The heater droned like a metronome marking the rhythm of what was about to begin.
The air between us felt charged — heavy, expectant — the moment before a confession or a prayer.
Kais leaned forward slightly. His voice dropped to a near whisper.
"So, tell me, Aubrey Ardel — when the world stopped loving you, who taught you how to love again?"
The question lingered in the space between us — fragile, devastating, divine.
And just like that,the interview began.