Tariq bin Alan had always believed that the past, once buried, stayed buried. That if one lived quietly, worked honestly, and harmed no one, life would grant peace.
But peace, he was learning, was not something the Al-Hakeem world offered freely.
The morning passed in unusual stillness. Even the garden birds seemed reluctant to sing, as if the estate itself held its breath. Tariq sat at his writing desk, responding to one of Zahra's late-night notes — a simple question about his favorite childhood memory.
He had written:
> "The scent of my mother's bread baking, and my father humming old love songs after prayer."
It was strange, he thought, how easy it was to give her pieces of himself. How her quiet, watchful presence had begun to carve space in his life — without ever showing him her full face. She was like a fragrance that lingered, long after she'd left the room — a quiet that spoke volumes.
A knock interrupted the moment. It was the same young attendant who had guided him through the halls on his first day.
"Sir, there is someone at the gate," she said. "He says you know him. From the southern port."
The port.
Tariq stood at once, heart thudding. He had few friends left there, and even fewer who would come unannounced.
When he stepped into the receiving hall, the man turned — tall, broad-shouldered, with a faded navy tunic and a weathered face that broke into a cautious smile.
"Tariq."
He blinked. "Yusef?"
"In the flesh," the man chuckled, then added more seriously, "though perhaps not for long. I wasn't exactly invited."
Tariq gestured him inside. "What are you doing here?"
Yusef stepped across the threshold, his eyes darting around the carved stonework and gold-accented lattice screens.
"Word's spreading like fire through the quarters. You've married her."
Tariq said nothing.
Yusef continued. "They say you live like a prince now. But I came because... well, because I remember the boy who used to give away his lunch so others could eat. And because I've heard things."
"What kind of things?"
Yusef's tone darkened. "About her. About the estate. Her past husbands — both of them. The first died suddenly, the second vanished."
Tariq's jaw clenched. "Those are rumors."
"Maybe," Yusef said. "But they're persistent ones. And they always start in the same place — the council."
Tariq glanced toward the hall, suddenly aware of every shadow, every curtain that might be hiding listening ears.
Yusef leaned in, lowering his voice. "They're watching you, Tariq. They always watch the husband. And they always bury the story."
A beat of silence.
"You trust her?" Yusef asked.
Tariq looked down at his hand — the one that had held hers just the night before. He thought of the way she had trembled, just slightly, when he touched her. The way her voice had cracked when she whispered, "You do belong."
"It sound laughable asking a husband if he trusts his wife," Tariq said honestly. "Don't you think, Yusef?"
Yusef sighed. "I guess so. Just be careful. Because here, the past isn't past. It's just waiting."
Later that evening, Tariq found himself restless. He walked through the garden corridors, hoping to glimpse Zahra, hoping to hear even the faint sound of her steps. Something in him longed for the quiet comfort of her nearness — though they had exchanged few words, her presence seemed to anchor something deep inside him.
Instead, he found another note slipped beneath the door.
> "I heard Yusef came. I'm sorry. I should have told you sooner."
> "If you wish to ask me anything, come to the west terrace tonight. I will not veil my answers."
Tariq stared at the letter. The words carried weight.
I will not veil my answers.
It was the first time she had offered something so open.
The west terrace overlooked the city, its edge lined with tall lanterns that swayed in the breeze. Tariq found her already there, seated beneath a carved wooden canopy, her silhouette framed by the stars.
This time, she did not rise as he approached. She only looked up — and lowered her veil completely.
It was the first time he had seen her whole face so close and he went in closer.
She was striking — not merely beautiful, but strong. Not soft in the way stories spoke of widows, but shaped by fire and endurance. There was history in her eyes — not bitterness, but clarity. A grace that refused to apologize for surviving.
"I was married at eighteen," she said before he could speak. "To a man my father chose. He died two years later. I was blamed — not openly, but in whispers. 'Too independent,' they said. 'Too cold.'"
Tariq listened in silence.
"My second husband was chosen by the council. I said yes because I was tired of saying no. He... disappeared. Walked out one morning and never returned."
"Did you love him?" Tariq asked quietly.
"No," she said without hesitation. "I didn't even know him. And he never tried to know me."
She looked at him now, eyes unflinching.
"I don't want a husband who worships my money. Or one who fears my silence. I want someone who sees me. Even when I hide."
Tariq's chest tightened.
"You said you wanted to know who I really am," she said. "Well... I don't always know either. I'm still trying."
He reached out then, brushing his fingers against hers. "Then let's find out together."
The wind rustled the jasmine vines around them. Somewhere below, the city whispered its doubts, its gossip, its stories.
But on the terrace, for one night, truth sat between them — unveiled and unafraid.
The Moon above Them
The estate had long fallen silent.
A cool breeze wandered through the open corridors, rustling the lantern-lit curtains like whispered secrets. The moon hung pale and dignified above the estate, casting elongated shadows across the sandstone walls.
In his private quarters, Tariq sat by the window, his robe draped loosely over his shoulders. He had just extinguished the oil lamp on his desk after rereading the letter from his brother. His eyes, however, had not let go of Zahra's face since the afternoon in the garden — though she had long since gone to her wing of the estate.
Her voice lingered.
Her restraint had been graceful, but her eyes had said more than she would allow herself to speak. And now, in the quiet of his room, surrounded by books he couldn't read and silence that refused to soothe, his heart ached for something... or someone.
A soft knock.
He turned.
Three quiet raps echoed against the heavy wooden door. Gentle, hesitant.
He rose slowly, uncertain if it was real — if he had imagined it.
Another knock, barely audible now.
Tariq moved to the door and opened it.
There she stood. As though his mind had brought her to him.
Zahra.
Clad in a flowing silk shawl, her gaze was lowered, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. The dim hallway light painted her in gold and moonlight, ethereal yet fragile.
She looked so innocent yet she is a a woman twice widowed with little emotional history.
"I... I know I shouldn't be here," she whispered, her voice barely rising above a hush. "It's late. Forgive me."
He looked at her for a moment, as if memorizing her.
"Why not?" he said gently. "You are my wife."
The words carried no force, only truth.
She looked up, startled by the tenderness in his voice. There was no accusation in his eyes, only invitation. A soft kindness.
"I couldn't sleep," she admitted, her lips trembling with the weight of the admission. "I don't know why, but... my heart kept coming here."
Tariq stepped aside.
"Then let it stay," he said quietly.
She stepped into the room, each footfall cautious, like stepping across a fragile line neither of them had dared to cross before.
He didn't rush. He closed the door slowly, the click sealing a moment suspended in time.
Zahra stood by the window now, her hands trailing the edge of the table, her eyes not meeting his. He took a deep breath and joined her.
"I don't know what this marriage will become," he said, "but I know how it began — with obligation. And still... I've found myself wondering, since the day we returned, whether Allah placed you in my path for more than duty."
She turned her face toward him. His words, soft and sure, had settled into her heart.
"I've wondered too," she said, her voice breaking just slightly.
There was a long silence.
"I was afraid," she added, "that if I came, I would seem forward. That you might turn me away."
He smiled faintly, walking closer — not touching, but near enough that she could feel his warmth.
"I've waited too long to know the peace that could come from loving someone without war. "If your steps carry kindness, Zahra... I will never turn you away."
Her breath caught.
One tear slipped past her lashes, quick as a confession.
He reached out — slowly, reverently — and wiped it with the back of his fingers.
Still no more than that.
Just nearness.
"I don't know what love means yet," she murmured. "But I want to know what it looks like with you."
Tariq's eyes searched hers then locked onto it, a quiet storm rising behind his calm.
"Then we will learn together," he said.
For the first time since their wedding, they stood not as strangers bound by empire — but as two souls beginning a pilgrimage inward. Toward each other. Toward something real.
Somewhere below, the city whispered its secrets and lies.
But here, in the hush between two breaths, something sacred had begun.