The world around Ayman was a blur. He stood on the side of the road, his body trembling, his knees barely holding him upright. The cold night air bit at his skin, but he didn't feel it. His ears buzzed, drowning out the frantic voices around him. Shadows danced in the flickering light of the flames still consuming what remained of Karim's car inside the tunnel.
People had gathered. Bystanders. Police officers. A paramedic gently touched his shoulder, but he didn't react. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?" the man asked, his voice muffled like it came from underwater. Ayman blinked but didn't respond. His eyes remained fixed on the glowing inferno ahead. His brother was gone.
The questions came quickly, one after the other, from every direction.
"What happened here?"
"How did the car explode?"
"Why were you two out so late?"
Ayman opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His lips quivered, his throat dry and tight. His mind replayed the final moments over and over—Karim's words, the slam of the car door, the blinding flash, and the deafening boom.
The scene shifted like a fever dream. One moment he was on the roadside; the next, he was in his home. The house was full, crowded with people he barely recognized. They all seemed to be speaking at once. The smell of burning incense filled the air. Women whispered in the corner, their voices hushed but cutting through the noise like blades. His mother's cries echoed through the house, raw and primal.
Ayman sat in a chair by the wall, his face pale, his hands limp in his lap. Karim's wife, her belly heavy with child, sat on the floor nearby, rocking back and forth. Her sobs were a haunting melody, her hand clutching her stomach as if to shield her unborn child from the weight of her grief.
"Ayman, what happened?" His neighbor demanded, his voice sharp and urgent.
Ayman's lips parted, but again, no words came. His gaze drifted to the floor, to the smudged, uneven tiles that his brother had promised to replace one day. His brother, who was now gone.
He could hear his mother screaming from another room. "Karim! My son! My dear boy! He is gone and left me alone!" The sound twisted his chest, but still, no tears came. His body felt numb, as though he had been drained of everything that made him human.
The news spread fast through the neighborhood. People came and went, offering condolences that Ayman barely registered. "He was such a good man," someone said. "May Allah rest him in peace." The words felt distant, foreign, as though they were meant for someone else.
And then came the longest night of Ayman's life. It was a night that stretched endlessly, each second dragging like the weight of a heavy chain. The silence in his small, dimly lit room was suffocating, broken only by the faint creaks of the old wooden floor beneath his restless feet. The faint glow of the moon seeped through the cracked shutters, casting pale, ghostly patterns on the walls, patterns that seemed to shift and dance, mocking his sleepless state.
Ayman sat hunched over on the edge of his bed, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands gripping his hair as if trying to hold his head together. His eyes, bloodshot and burning, stared blankly at the floor. The ghost of his brother's laughter filled the room—not a sound, but a memory, so vivid it felt real. It echoed in his mind, a cruel reminder of what he had lost.
He could almost see Karim sitting across from him, smiling that warm, reassuring smile that had always been his anchor in the storm. But now, that smile was gone, replaced by the stillness of the grave. Ayman closed his eyes, desperate to block out the vision, but it only grew stronger in the darkness behind his eyelids.
The room felt smaller with each passing moment, the walls closing in, the air thick and heavy. He tried to lie down, to find some solace in the embrace of sleep, but his body rejected it. The mattress felt foreign, the pillow a stone under his head. Every position brought discomfort; every attempt to rest brought memories rushing back—the way Karim had laughed, the way he had spoken, the way he had been.
Ayman's chest tightened as tears welled up in his eyes, but they refused to fall. They stayed trapped, burning, as though his body was punishing him for his guilt, for his helplessness. He paced the room, barefoot on the cold, cracked tiles, his shadow stretching long and distorted in the faint moonlight.
The silence was the worst part. It was deafening, pressing down on him, amplifying his thoughts, his doubts, his fears. His brother's laughter intertwined with his own inner voice, accusing, questioning, haunting.
"Why couldn't I save him? Why wasn't I there? What do I do now? Was it because of me?"
The questions swirled in his mind, relentless and unanswered, as the night dragged on, turning seconds into hours, hours into an eternity. Ayman's soul felt as though it was unraveling, one fragile thread at a time, leaving him exposed and raw, standing at the edge of an abyss he couldn't name.
As dawn approached, a faint orange light broke through the shutters, offering no comfort, only a stark reminder that the world would continue, indifferent to his pain. But for Ayman, the night would never truly end—it had carved itself into his heart, leaving a scar that would never fade.
The morning sun barely rose, veiled behind heavy clouds that seemed to mourn alongside the family. Ayman sat on the steps outside the house, staring at the ground. His hands were clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms as if to anchor him to reality. He heard the murmurs of men returning from the hospital, carrying the grim news: Karim's body had been recovered.
The whispers grew louder as they approached, followed by a muffled sob from inside the house. Ayman looked up for the first time that day, his chest tightening as he saw the wooden stretcher. The white shroud covering Karim's body was soaked through in places, burned at the edges. Beneath it, the outline of his brother's form was unmistakable. His shoulders. His legs. But his face...
Ayman couldn't bring himself to look closely. The flames had claimed too much. He turned away, his throat burning with a scream he refused to release.
Inside the house, preparations for the burial had begun. The men laid Karim's body in the central room, a place usually filled with laughter and family gatherings, now consumed by a suffocating silence. Women gathered in another room, their voices a mixture of Quranic recitation and soft, sorrowful cries.
Two older men began the ritual of ghusl, the washing of the deceased. They worked in respectful silence, pouring warm water over Karim's body, their hands gentle despite the burns marring his skin. Ayman stood in the doorway, watching with hollow eyes. His mother had tried to come into the room, but the women had held her back, fearing the sight would be too much for her.
The house filled with visitors as the day went on. Neighbors, friends, and even distant relatives came to pay their respects. The sound of the Quran being recited never stopped, its rhythmic cadence filling every corner of the home. People sat in small groups, offering condolences and stories about Karim. "He was such a good man," one elderly neighbor said, his voice thick with emotion. "Always smiling, always helping others."
Ayman sat in the corner, silent. He hadn't moved in hours, his mind replaying the previous night over and over. His mother sat nearby, her face buried in her hands, her shoulders trembling with each sob. Karim's wife, her belly now seeming heavier than ever, was supported by two women as she moved between rooms. She hadn't spoken a word since the news.
Later that afternoon, the procession to the cemetery began. The men carried Karim's body through the narrow streets, the weight of their steps matching the heaviness in Ayman's heart. The entire neighborhood followed, their voices united in prayer.
At the cemetery, the men worked quickly, preparing Karim's grave with a reverence that brought tears to even the hardest eyes. Ayman stood at the edge, his gaze fixed on the freshly dug earth. When the last handful of dirt was thrown, sealing his brother's body beneath the ground, the finality of it all hit him like a wave.
"Ayman, Sorry for your lose" an elderly man said, placing a hand on his shoulder. He didn't turn. He couldn't. Instead, he whispered under his breath, his voice breaking, "Karim, I'm sorry."
The cemetery was overflowing. People from all walks of life had come to pay their respects to Karim, a man whose integrity had somehow bridged the gap between worlds that rarely crossed. Among the mourners were uniformed police officers standing solemnly, their hands clasped in front of them, their faces marked with respect. Standing just a few feet away were men with hardened faces—thugs, smugglers, men who had spent their lives dodging those same officers.
Farid stood among them, a figure notorious for his activities in the streets. His usual bravado was absent. Instead, his eyes were red-rimmed, and his shoulders slumped as he gazed at the wooden coffin being lowered into the ground. Ayman caught sight of him and felt a strange mix of emotions. Farid nodded at him and then wiped a tear from his face, as if ashamed to be seen crying.
Farid approached Ayman slowly, his voice soft but steady. "Your brother...he was a great man. Even though I hate cops, Karim was different. He treated us with respect. Never insulted us, never laid a hand on us. He was the only one who made us feel like we weren't just trash to be swept away." Farid paused, his voice cracking. "I'm sorry this happened to him. Truly."
Ayman nodded, his face unreadable, his emotions locked deep inside. "Thank you, Farid," he muttered.
Farid sighed heavily, looking down at the ground. "Listen, Ayman. You don't have to stay involved with us. Go rest. Take care of yourself. Whenever you want to come back, you're welcome. But for now...just focus on what you need to do. Help your mother too."
Ayman met his gaze, seeing the sincerity there. "I appreciate it," he said quietly.
Farid hesitated, his eyes darting to the grave and back. "By the way," Ayman said suddenly, his voice low, "Do you know anyone named Anis? And do you have another brother?"
Farid frowned. "Another brother? No. I only have Jalel and his sister in jail. And you said Anis? I don't know anyone by that name. Why?"
Ayman's expression darkened. "There's someone named Anis who told my brother about your plan to rob that rich man. He also knew about the attack we planned for last week. Because of that, the cops knew. And that's why I got caught scouting the house."
Farid's face hardened, his jaw tightening. "What?" His voice was a sharp whisper, tinged with disbelief and anger. "Are you sure?"
"Yes," Ayman replied. "But this isn't the time to discuss it. I just thought you should know."
Farid nodded, his eyes narrowing. "Thanks for telling me. I'll figure it out. For now, focus on Karim's funeral. We'll talk about this soon."
As Farid stepped away, his mind clearly racing, Ayman turned back toward the grave. He stood there, looking at the mound of fresh earth, his heart heavy. Around him, people continued to offer condolences, whispering prayers and murmuring words of comfort.
One of his old friends, the medical assistant Sami, approached him hesitantly. "Ayman," he said softly, "Sorry for your loss, my dear friend! And have you seen Nadir? I heard he went to Italy."
Ayman nodded without looking up. "Yeah. He's in Italy."
Semi placed a hand on his shoulder. "Damn it, he did it. I hope he will survive there and comeback soon. Take care of yourself. If you need anything, let me know. You are my brother too; always remember that."
Ayman didn't respond, his gaze fixed on the grave. His mind was still clouded by the events of the past two days, replaying every moment, every conversation, every detail of that night. He felt trapped, unable to escape the weight pressing down on him.
As the crowd began to thin and people returned to their lives, Ayman remained by the grave, alone. He knelt down, resting his hand on the dirt. "Karim," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I'll figure this out. I promise."
The wind picked up, carrying the scent of freshly turned earth and the sound of distant prayers. Ayman closed his eyes, his tears refusing to fall, his grief locked deep within him as he stood to face whatever was to come next.
The Qur'anic verses filled the air, their melody solemn and heavy, wrapping around the mourners as Karim's body was lowered into the grave. Ayman stood among them, his lips moving silently as he joined in the recitation. His mind, however, was elsewhere, tangled in thoughts and memories he couldn't shake.
As he raised his eyes from the grave, something caught his attention in the distance. A figure, sitting apart from the mourners, leaning against a tree near the edge of the cemetery. The man was dressed entirely in black—a tailored suit that seemed too pristine for the dusty graveyard. He wore a hat that cast a shadow over his face, but his posture was casual, almost indifferent, as if he didn't belong to this solemn gathering.
Ayman froze, his breath catching in his throat. It wasn't just the oddity of the man's attire—it was something more. Something familiar. His mind raced, flashing back to that night, the man in black he had seen in the house.
"Who...?" Ayman whispered to himself, his voice lost amidst the murmured prayers.
The man in black leaned forward, speaking quietly to an old man sitting beside him. The elder nodded solemnly, his face unreadable, but whatever they were discussing seemed intense. Then, almost as if sensing Ayman's gaze, the man in black turned his head.
Their eyes met.
Ayman felt a shiver crawl down his spine as the man's gaze pierced through him, calm yet unnerving, as if he could see into the depths of Ayman's soul. Time seemed to slow, the Qur'anic recitations fading into the background.
Then, just as suddenly as it began, the man stood up, adjusting his hat with an almost theatrical precision. Without a word, he turned and walked away, disappearing behind the trees lining the edge of the cemetery.
Ayman's heart pounded. He wanted to go after him, to demand answers. His body tensed, ready to move, but a hand clasped his shoulder firmly.
"Ayman," a voice interrupted. It was one of the older mourners, a family friend. "Your brother...he was a great man. May Allah forgive his sins and grant him Jannah."
Ayman nodded absently, his eyes darting back toward where the man had vanished. "Yes...yes, I know," he muttered, trying to pull away.
"Stay here," the man insisted, his tone gentle but firm. "This is your time to pray for him. Focus on that. Everything else can wait."
Ayman bit back his frustration, his mind still racing. The figure in black had vanished as mysteriously as he had appeared. No one else seemed to notice. The mourners were fixated on the grave, on the prayers, and on the loss of Karim.
But Ayman knew what he had seen. That man wasn't just a figment of his imagination.
His thoughts spiraled. Who is he? Why was he here? Is this connected to Karim?
As the final handfuls of dirt were tossed onto Karim's grave, Ayman's mind wasn't on his brother's resting place. It was on the man in black, the enigma who seemed to be watching him, haunting him.
And deep down, Ayman knew this wouldn't be the last time he saw him.
As the funeral drew to a close, the mourners began to disperse, leaving the cemetery one by one. Ayman remained behind, standing alone by Karim's freshly covered grave. The Qur'anic recitations were gone, replaced by the whisper of the wind and the faint rustle of leaves.
He crouched down, his fingers brushing the dirt that now concealed his brother forever. The weight of reality pressed down on him, heavier than anything he had felt before. His brother was gone. His family's anchor, the one who had always held them together, was no more.
After what felt like hours, Ayman finally rose and walked home. Inside, the atmosphere was thick with grief. His mother sat silently in the corner, her face pale and drawn. Her sorrow was palpable, an unspoken cry that filled the room. Ayman sat beside her, but neither spoke. Words felt inadequate.
Later that evening, Farid came by, keeping his promise to check on him. "Ayman," he said, his tone uncharacteristically soft, "I brought something for you. To help you... take your mind off things. Let's go to the rooftop."
He held up a bottle of Siltia. Ayman hesitated but then nodded. Farid was trying to help in his own way. Soon, a few of his friends joined, sitting together in a small circle in the rooftop. They poured the drinks, raised them, and toasted Karim.
"To your brother," Farid said, his voice tinged with respect. "A man we all admired. May he rest in peace."
Ayman took a sip, the burn of the drink dulling the edges of his pain, if only for a moment. They talked, shared stories about Karim, and mourned him in their own way.
As the night deepened, Ayman excused himself, grabbing what was left of the bottle and heading back to the cemetery. He felt the pull to return to his brother's grave, as if something unresolved lingered there.
Standing by the grave under the pale moonlight, Ayman sat down, placing the bottle beside him. He bowed his head, his voice low and trembling.
"I'm sorry, Karim," he said, his words spilling out like a confession. "I wasn't there for you. I wasn't good enough. You carried us all, and I just... I didn't do enough. I promise I'll take care of everything now. I'll make things right."
The silence around him felt oppressive, his words going back in his mind. He took another sip from the bottle, hoping to drown out the growing void in his chest. But instead, the world around him began to warp.
The shadows seemed to stretch, and from the corner of his eye, he saw movement. He turned, and his breath caught in his throat.
There, walking beside him, was Karim—or what looked like him. His figure was distorted, his face partially hidden in shadow, the rest marred by burns and streaked with blood.
Ayman's heart raced as the figure stopped and turned toward him. Its face... it wasn't just Karim's—it was Ayman's. A bloodied, darkened version of his own reflection stared back at him, its expression twisted in pain and anger.
"No... no, this isn't real," Ayman whispered, shaking his head. He stumbled backward, the bottle slipping from his hand and shattering on the ground.
The figure with full black attire took a step closer, with blood in his left hand and a pistol in his right hand, its voice a distorted echo of his own. "You know what you'll become."
Ayman shut his eyes, clutching his head as if to block out the vision. "No! This isn't real!" he shouted.
When he opened his eyes again, the graveyard was silent and empty. The figure was gone. The only sound was the distant hum of the city.
Breathing heavily, Ayman stared at the grave, his hands trembling. Whatever he had seen—whether it was the alcohol, his grief, or something more sinister—it left a deep impression on him.
As he stood, he couldn't shake the image of the figure—his own face, bloodied and darkened. It felt like a warning, a glimpse into a path he couldn't yet comprehend.
Then, Ayman stood by his brother's grave, his hands trembling as he held a small booklet of Qur'an verses. Tears streamed down his face, falling onto the pages, smudging the ink slightly. "I'm sorry for everything, Karim," he whispered, his voice breaking. "You deserved better. I promise I'll take care of Mother, Marwa, and your son. I promise."
He knelt, pressing his forehead to the ground in prayer. "Forgive me, brother. Forgive me for being weak," he murmured. His tears mixed with the dirt beneath him, grounding him in the stark reality of his loss.
As he rose to his feet, dusting off his knees, a voice called out behind him.
"Hey, Ayman."
Startled, he turned to see a man approaching. The stranger wore a sharp black suit, his shoes polished to a mirror shine. His presence was almost too pristine for the somber, dirt-streaked graveyard.
"Your brother was a hero," the man said, his tone calm and steady. "A respected policeman. I always admired him."
Ayman frowned, studying the man. His face was unfamiliar, his voice devoid of the warmth expected from a friend. "Who are you?" Ayman asked, his voice cautious.
The man smiled faintly and reached into his pocket, pulling out a card. "Call me Mourad. I worked with Karim. Not closely, but I knew him well enough to respect him." He extended the card, which bore only a name and a phone number. "Here. If you ever need work, call me. Not now. Take your time. Mourn, heal. But when you're ready…"
Ayman hesitated before taking the card, his fingers brushing Mourad's for a brief moment. The contact felt oddly cold, sending a shiver down his spine. "What kind of work?" he asked.
Mourad chuckled softly, a sound that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Work that pays well. Enough to help your family. Let's just say, I help people find… solutions."
The cryptic answer only deepened Ayman's suspicion, but he was too drained to press further. Mourad reached into his pocket again and handed Ayman a thick envelope. The weight of it made Ayman's hand drop slightly.
"Take this," Mourad said. "A small gesture. For your family. For Karim."
Ayman's mouth opened to protest, but Mourad silenced him with a raised hand. "Don't say no. Just take it. Consider it… an advance."
With that, Mourad gave a curt nod and walked away, his polished shoes clicking softly against the stone path. Ayman stood frozen, watching him go. Something about the man's presence felt off, unsettling, like a shadow that lingered even in broad daylight.
He looked down at the envelope, then back up, but Mourad had already vanished beyond the cemetery gates. Counting the money inside, Ayman's breath caught. It was a substantial amount—enough to make his hands shake.
"Who the hell was that?" he muttered to himself.
He glanced at the card again, flipping it over, hoping for more information. Nothing. Just "Mourad" and a phone number. The vagueness gnawed at him.
For a moment, he thought about running after the man, demanding answers. But the weight of his grief and exhaustion held him in place. Instead, he tucked the card into his pocket and the money into his jacket, staring at Karim's grave.
"What have you gotten me into now, brother?" He whispered, his voice heavy with a mix of sadness and confusion.
The wind picked up, carrying the scent of damp earth and a faint chill that crept down his spine. Ayman stayed there a little longer, his mind racing with questions he wasn't ready to answer.
When he finally left the cemetery, the card in his pocket felt like a ticking time bomb—a harbinger of a life he wasn't sure he wanted but couldn't seem to avoid.