The Ghost Between Sentences
"So, you fell for her at first sight?"
Kais leaned forward, curiosity glinting behind the calm mask he wore. The steam from his cup curled upward, catching the faint light that poured through the tall windows. The scent of cardamom and honey lingered — soft, nostalgic, like a memory that refused to fade.
Across from him, Kennedy placed a tray on the glass table, her movements careful, deliberate. Porcelain clinked gently — the sound of gentleness trying to hold a fragile room together.
"I won't intrude, Mr. Ardel," she said, her voice a quiet melody that softened the air. "I only came to listen."
Her presence filled the edges of the room with warmth — the kind of warmth that exists only in people who have seen sorrow and learned to hold it kindly. Then, she retreated to her chair, folding her hands over her apron as the silence returned.
Kais spoke again, his tone thoughtful. "So? Was it love at first sight?"
I poured two spoonfuls of sugar into my tea, watching the crystals dissolve, slow and quiet, like stars sinking beneath water.
"No," I said at last, stirring the amber liquid. "Not at all. I didn't fall for her at first sight."The spoon clinked once against the cup before I set it down. "But she... enchanted me. She didn't look at me like the world did. She saw my art — not the man behind it."
Kais smiled faintly, intrigued. "And what was it about her that did that? The enchantment, I mean."
I took a sip. The tea was warm, grounding — a small mercy. "She looked at my work like it was alive," I murmured. "As if she heard what I was trying to say — even when I didn't have the words for it. No pretense, no expectation. Just... truth."
He nodded slowly, his gaze thoughtful. "You talk about her as if she still lives in your sentences."
"Maybe she does," I said softly.
The words hung in the air — gentle, unhurried, but heavy enough to silence everything else. Even the ticking clock seemed to pause, as if listening.
Then Kais leaned forward, his tone shifting. "Tell me something, Aubrey. Why didn't Michael defend you that day — with your father? You were right about wanting to walk away. Why didn't he say anything?"
I exhaled slowly, leaning back against the velvet sofa. The fabric caught the light, the faint shimmer of dust motes drifting in its folds. Outside, the city glowed pale through the window — a horizon of muted gold and winter glass.
"Because Michael never defended people," I said. "He understood them. And when you truly understand someone... you don't rush to shield them. You wait. You listen. You let them fall if they must."
Kais frowned, his brow furrowing. "So you think he was right?"
"I think," I said quietly, "he knew I needed to fight my father on my own. Michael saw all of us — my father's pride, my defiance — and he carried the silence between us. He didn't take sides. He balanced the storm."
For a moment, Kais didn't reply. His jaw tightened, his expression unreadable. But beneath it, I saw the faintest flicker of respect — the kind that comes from recognizing another man's truth.
The air was still when the doorbell rang.
Kennedy rose immediately, smoothing her apron. "I'll get it," she said softly, her footsteps light against the marble.
The sound of the latch turned, and then came sunlight — a burst of it, sharp and alive — followed by a voice bright enough to fill the room.
"Kais! Aubrey!"
Hayat swept in like a gust of spring wind — her laughter and perfume arriving before she did. Her presence was colour after grey; she seemed to carry light wherever she went.
Kais groaned. "What are you doing here?" His tone was clipped, but the faint twitch in his jaw betrayed him.
She flopped onto the sofa beside him with the ease of someone who had never feared him. "Oh, don't be so dramatic," she said, reaching for a biscuit. "I didn't see your name carved on the door."
Their banter began instantly — sharp, quick, the kind that fills silence with life.
"For God's sake," Kais muttered, exasperated, "must you appear everywhere I am?"
Hayat grinned, radiant and merciless. "Someone has to make sure you don't ruin every room you enter."
Kennedy's laugh slipped out from the kitchen — soft and motherly — while I hid a smile behind my teacup, the sound of their bickering oddly comforting.
Then Hayat leaned forward suddenly, eyes glinting with mischief. "Oh, I know what's got you like this." She shot me a conspiratorial look. "My dear brother is mad because — for the first time in his life — a girl rejected him."
I nearly choked on my tea. Kais's expression darkened instantly, thunder gathering in his eyes. "Hayat," he said, his voice low and dangerous, "I will end you."
"Stop being dramatic," she teased, laughing.
I couldn't help it — a small laugh escaped me, breaking through the tension. "Someone rejected Kais Ferdous?" I asked, my tone teasing. "That's a story I'd pay to see written."
Hayat clasped her hands as if struck by divine inspiration. "Maybe we should introduce her to you, Aubrey!"
The room froze.
Even the sunlight seemed to hesitate midair.
Kais's head snapped toward her; her grin faltered instantly. "Oh God — Aubrey, I didn't mean— I'm sorry—"
I smiled faintly, forcing my tone light though the air had turned heavy. "Introduce her to me?" I said, swirling the tea slowly. "I think I've had enough heartbreak for a lifetime."
The words were soft — almost playful — but the silence that followed was not.
Hayat's shoulders sank, guilt dimming the mischief in her eyes. She looked down, tracing the rim of her cup. Kennedy's hands stilled where she stood. Even Kais — usually immovable — turned his gaze away.
I looked up and found all of them watching me, their pity quiet but unbearable.
"Don't look at me like that," I said gently, setting my cup down. "She's still here. Just not where you can see her."
The room fell silent. Only the clock ticked again, its rhythm slow and deliberate, marking the seconds like prayers.
Kennedy's voice broke softly through the stillness. "Mr. Ardel..." she began, but her words faded into the air before they could take shape.
No one spoke after that. There was nothing left to say.
The sunlight dimmed, the room cooling into dusk — a hush that felt sacred, not sad. And in that quiet, I felt her again — faint as breath, soft as memory.
Even after all these years, I thought, I am still hers.