The journey to Canada had passed in a profound silence. Amid the faint hum of the airplane, Zulkarnain's gaze remained fixed ahead, thoughtful and unblinking.
Upon reaching the hospital, Zulkarnain spotted Zarif and gently took his hand, guiding him inside. Despite the flashing lights and the meaningless commotion of the lobby, Zarif's eyes were locked on one single direction—towards Zarim. As they neared the door, his heart pounded violently, his breaths short and uneven, as if every moment was being lived under the shadow of fear.
And there he lay. Unconscious on the hospital bed, his body marred with fresh wounds, bandages wrapped tightly around his head, his arms dangling limply at his sides. Zarim's golden eyes were closed, yet his breaths waged a silent battle on the edge of life itself. Zarif stepped forward, attempting to bend closer to him, but the pounding of his heart and the weight of fear held him back.
Zulkarnain stood silently by the bed, their eyes fixed on Zarim. They watched as Zarif himself overwhelmed with fear and anxiety—clung to his father helplessly, wrapping him in an instinctive embrace. Zarim's injuries and fragile form tore at Zarif's heart, leaving him breathless.
In the quiet of the room, only the soft rhythm of heartbeats and the beeping of hospital machines filled the air. Then, suddenly, Zarim's eyes fluttered open. In their golden depths lay the unmistakable traces of exhaustion and pain, yet mingled with it was a spark of daring defiance. Zulkarnain, seeing this, immediately reached out to hold his hand—but Zarim retracted his hand sharply, almost instinctively.
The sight left Zulkarnain frozen, breathless, as if confronting some unknown danger or sudden truth.
Zarif, however, slowly inched closer to Zarim, tears brimming in his eyes, attempting to hide the turmoil within. His voice trembled as he spoke,
"I thought… no one would scold me now… no one would bother me anymore…"
Zarim, in a faintly humorous yet weary tone, replied,
"Hmm… I survived, and that's why you're crying?"
Zarif wiped his tears, voice faltering but determined,
"I'm not crying… not for you, understand?… And certainly not for you!"
He raised a finger, pointing at Zarim, and for a fleeting moment, Zarim's eyes widened in surprise before softening into a subtle smile. Zulkarnain observed this scene quietly, their expression unreadable.
"How did this accident happen?" The sudden question cut through the silence like a thunderclap. Zarim remained silent, making the air even heavier, while Zarif's eyes remained locked on him, restless with worry, yet unable to speak.
Shaking his head in negation, Zulkarnain turned and walked out of the room.
"You never behave properly with Dad, do you?" Zarif snapped, frustration threading his voice.
Zarim's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
"They came all the way from Jeddah worrying about you, and you've upset them," Zarif continued, exasperated.
Zarim rose from the bed and left the room. The doctor tried to stop him, but he walked past silently, flanked by his guards. Observing this, Zulkarnain pressed his lips together, watching quietly, while Zarif followed his every move.
"He's gone. Dad, come with me—we'll meet him at home," Zarif said, guiding him out of the hospital.
Once home, Zarim had already retreated to his room.
Zulkarnain sat with Zarif, talking for a long while, until finally Zarif left to rest. Later, they knocked on Zarim's door. After a short pause, he opened it, dressed in a black nightdress. No one could have guessed that this was the same person who had survived such a terrible accident. Seeing Zulkarnain, he abruptly shut the door in their face.