"The most dangerous thing we can hear isn't a lie — it's the truth, when it comes from a mouth we never expected."
Despite her failure at the hotel, Dalaal refused to give up.
A new invitation arrived from the university: another lecture by Billy Mark, this time titled:
"Testimonies from the Frontlines: The Soldier and the Human."
She didn't hesitate.
She sat in the front row, her eyes fixed on the stage, her heartbeat echoing like war drums.
Mark entered calmly, greeted the audience, and began to speak — his tone softer than before, stripped of arrogance, carrying something almost like remorse.
"When I was a soldier in Palestine," he said slowly,
"I witnessed injustice in its rawest form. There was no security — only humiliation. Children searched, young men dragged away, mothers crying. I thought we were protecting democracy… but we were killing it."
The hall fell into a heavy silence.
Some students scribbled notes furiously; others nodded, visibly moved.
But for Dalaal, his words didn't echo through the walls — they echoed inside her, merging with Baha'a's voice from that final protest day.
Her friend Yasmin, sitting two seats away, raised her hand and asked in English:
"Mr. Mark, could you tell us about your last mission in Palestine? What exactly happened?"
Mark paused.
He inhaled deeply, his gaze distant, and spoke with a trembling voice:
"There was a young man… unarmed, shouting for freedom. Suddenly, shots were fired. He fell. Cameras caught the moment. The world thought it was me. But the truth is… I didn't pull the trigger. They needed someone to blame. So they chose me — a scapegoat."
A murmur swept through the room.
Reporters raised their cameras, students exchanged bewildered looks.
Dalaal sat frozen.
Her chest tightened, her thoughts spiraling:
"So… it wasn't him? He didn't kill Baha'a? His name was just a mask — covering the real killer…"
She had imagined this moment as one of vengeance.
Instead, she found herself staring at a broken man, haunted by a crime he might not have committed.
Rage clashed with confusion; grief collided with doubt.
As she stepped out into the cold night, snowflakes melting on her face, she whispered to herself:
"Baha'a… maybe your killer isn't here.
But maybe… the truth is still waiting to be uncovered."