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After four hours of continuous travel, Salar headed straight to the flat where Zaheer was waiting for him.
It was one in the morning.
"Salar Shah, would you like to tell me where you were? And where is Aizal? What was this sudden nikah drama?"
Zaheer was about to say more when Salar, taking off his coat, said in an expressionless tone,
"Our flight is at two. Get ready."
Zaheer stared at him for a few moments.
"Flight? Now?"
"New York. And we have to pick up the luggage from the hotel as well."
Saying this, Salar walked toward the car parked outside, as if giving explanations was not part of his nature.
Unwillingly, Zaheer followed him. Even as he sat in the car, a storm of questions raged in his mind—but Salar's face was unusually calm.
They collected their luggage from the hotel, completed the airport formalities, and soon after, they were on the plane.
By the time they reached New York, Zaheer felt exhausted, but there was a strange alertness in Salar's eyes—as if he had been on a mental journey rather than a physical one.
When they reached home—a place that resembled a palace—Zaheer took a deep breath as soon as he stepped inside.
Countless questions circled in his mind.
Where was Aizal? How had the nikah happened so suddenly? Why was Salar so calm?
The questions still revolved in his mind, but his body had given up.
With a faint smile, Salar said,
"Get some rest… we'll talk later."
Saying this, he winked lightly and walked toward his room with complete ease.
Zaheer stood there for a few moments, watching him leave.
At Salar's unserious attitude, he shook his head.
"This man can never give a straight answer…" he muttered.
Finally, shrugging helplessly, he too walked toward his room—but the questions in his mind were still alive.
After freshening up, Salar went up to the top floor of the apartment. The New York night shone beyond the glass walls—but amid the lights, the intensity of the cold was clearly felt. Icy gusts struck the glass as if seeping inside.
He stood there for a while, looking at the city.
Suddenly, a face appeared in the fogged glass—
Aizal's.
Salar blinked immediately, as if the vision were nothing but an illusion.
Annoyance crossed his face.
"Why am I even thinking about her?"
There was irritation in his tone. His pride once again began to overpower his emotions.
"Aizal… you really mean nothing to me."
But perhaps he did not realize that he had already linked his name with hers—and bonds of names do not break so easily.
He lay down on the bed, and at some point, he fell asleep.
It felt as if he was standing in a beautiful valley. A soft breeze, green fields, and a deep, silent calm.
In front of him stood a girl dressed in a white abaya and hijab—like a goddess of beauty.
She was smiling.
Aizal.
Salar had just taken a few steps toward her when suddenly the scene changed.
The greenery vanished.
The light dimmed.
The valley turned into desolation.
Aizal disappeared.
"Aizal!
Aizal!"
He began searching for her instinctively. His steps quickened. His breath grew heavy.
Suddenly, he struck against a stone and fell—
And at that very moment, his eyes opened.
The room was steeped in silence. Despite the intense cold outside, his entire body was drenched in sweat. For a few moments, he sat upright, trying to steady his breathing.
It was eight in the morning.
He ran a hand over his forehead.
"Come on… just a dream."
Yet somewhere deep within his heart, the unease still remained.
He immediately got up and went to freshen up—as if trying to turn reality back into normal as quickly as possible.
When he came downstairs, the usual routine of the house had already begun.
The caretaker, Miss Maria Jones, and the chef, Mehmat Rehan, were present on time as always. Both lived in the annex built at the back of the apartment.
Miss Maria was a cheerful woman of about forty-five. After her divorce, she was living separately—a relationship that had ended due to abuse. Salar was the one who had not only rescued her from that situation but had also taken legal action and sent the man to prison. Since then, Maria did not consider Salar just an employer, but a protector.
On the other hand, Mehmat Rehan—a Turkish-American—was pursuing an MSc in Hospitality and Restaurant Management at New York University. Circumstances at home had forced him to work alongside his studies, but his dream was not just to become a chef; he wanted to establish a high-standard restaurant of his own in the future.
Once, Salar had tasted food prepared by him at a restaurant and could not help but be impressed by his skill. He had offered him the position of a home chef on the spot. Such an offer from a businessman of that stature was something Mehmat accepted wholeheartedly.
Mehmat was sociable, gentle, and regular in his prayers. And Miss Maria treated him like a son.
As Salar descended the stairs, he appeared calm as usual.
But somewhere within—
the shadow of a dream was still alive.
Mehmat Rehan followed a disciplined routine. Every morning, he prepared breakfast and then left for the university. By afternoon, he returned, rested for a while, and then immersed himself in his studies.
In the evening, when Salar returned from the office, Mehmat prepared new dishes for him—sometimes a variation of Turkish cuisine, sometimes a modern fusion. He wanted to present something different every day.
But often, Salar would go to a club with his friend Edward Jones after work. Many times, he would eat there and return.
Although Salar and his friends did praise Mehmat's cooking, there was always a faint irritation in Salar's tone toward him—perhaps his excessive simplicity, religious nature, or consistency bothered him. The biggest reason was Salar Shah's distance from Allah and from religion.
Mehmat, however, remained indifferent to all this, absorbed in his work and his dreams.
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