After a long and weary day, I sat in my chair, alone in my bedroom, lost in thought and uncertainty about what tomorrow might bring. A bell of suspense rang sharply in my mind, pulling me back to a conversation I had once had with my wife—one I had shamefully ignored at the time.
All my life, I've regretted that moment of inattentiveness. Now, as I sat in silence, fragments of her words returned to me—she had mentioned something about a letter. It struck me suddenly: she had tried to tell me something important, something I dismissed, choosing instead to make assumptions rather than listen.
She must have put it all in that letter—a final attempt to communicate something that wasn't quite right.
The house was in chaos. Everything was turned upside down, nothing was where it should be. I searched frantically, trying to make sense of it all, but the puzzle only deepened. The more I tried to find direction, the more the paths deceived me. Then, silence—an unsettling stillness—and then, clarity.
The paint.
You're probably wondering what connection a painting could have with a hidden letter. So was I. But something inside urged me forward. I approached the painting—there were no holes, no visible disturbances. It appeared intact. Still, I believed, irrational as it seemed, that the answer lay within it.
The painting stared back at me, almost accusingly, as though blaming me for not paying attention to my wife, for failing her in the moments that mattered. Suddenly, another thought struck me—I had forgotten to pick up the children from the care home.
Overwhelmed, I prayed to Allah for guidance, for answers, for relief from the burden of a guilt I could no longer carry. I also had an old debt lingering—another weight pressing on my conscience.
Returning home with the children, my thoughts still clouded, I took another look at the painting. That's when I noticed it: the canvas had two layers—front and back. But how could a letter be hidden inside a painting?
The maid greeted us warmly, ushering the kids to their bedroom and heading to the kitchen to prepare supper. I didn't waste another second. Driven by a mix of desperation and hope, I stood before the painting, knife in hand, ready to uncover the truth.
"Interesting… my wife was clever," I whispered to myself.
And there it was—behind the layers of paint and canvas—the letter.
But the greatest question still remained: