The room was draped in shadows, though a faint silver light from the moon slipped through the sheer curtains and spilled across the marble floor. The walls were painted in a deep shade of grey, and beyond the glass wall, the city shimmered faintly under the distant glow of streetlights.
At the center stood a king-sized bed, covered with black linen—neat, untouched. In one corner, a small desk sat quietly with an open laptop and a few scattered books.
Zarim stood in the middle of the room, dressed in a dark navy nightdress. A strip of bandage was wrapped around his forehead, the bruises on his face still visible pale reminders of what he had survived.
He walked slowly toward the wardrobe. As he opened the wooden door, a faint scent of cedar drifted out to meet him. Inside, rows of neatly arranged clothes hung in perfect order, untouched for days. Beneath them were a set of small lockers. He bent down and unlocked the lowest one.
Inside lay a collection of old photographs, letters, and tiny mementos of a childhood half-forgotten. Carefully, he pulled out a diary—worn and aged, its leather cover now a faded brown, its corners yellowed and fragile with time.
Zarim ran his fingers over it slowly. It was his mother's diary—the only thing she had left behind before she died giving birth to him and Zarif. He had never opened it before, perhaps out of fear, perhaps because some silences are too heavy to break.
His thumb brushed over the middle of the diary, and his eyes caught something strange—a small, carved compartment designed to fit a pendant.
A sudden memory flashed before him.
That pendant.
That tiny necklace he had once placed around the neck of a newborn baby—the one whose face had never left his mind.
His breath quickened. His fingers trembled.
Could it be the same locket? His mother's last keepsake? The very piece of her memory he had unknowingly given away?
He tried to open the diary, pressing his thumb against the lock, but it wouldn't budge. He tried again—harder this time—but the lock refused to yield. Desperation flickered in his eyes as he turned the diary over, searching for a hidden key or a secret clasp.
Nothing.
A quiet sigh escaped his lips. Disappointment lingered in the air as he hesitated for a moment, staring at the fragile thing in his hands. Then, almost reluctantly, he ran his hand one last time over its worn surface before placing it back in the locker.
He closed the wardrobe and turned toward the bed. Lying down, he let the cold moonlight touch his face. His eyes glistened faintly, though no tears fell.
As he closed his eyes, that image returned again—the newborn with the small silver nacklass shining faintly against her skin.
And somewhere, buried deep within that locked diary, his mother's untold secrets still slept—silent and waiting.