The autumn wind danced along the shore, carrying whispers through the dunes. Zaman—still calling himself *Dor* to Yelda—sat on their usual bench, notebook in hand. The sun dipped low, painting the sky in hues of amber and rose. Yelda came sprinting down the path, her laughter ringing like wind chimes.
"You're late," he said softly, not looking up.
"Only by seven minutes!" she panted, dropping beside him. "I brought tea. And guess what? I found one of your poems—in a café in Edinburgh! Posted under 'Anonymous.' Everyone's talking about it!"
Zaman stiffened slightly but smiled. "Must be a coincidence."
Yelda rolled her eyes playfully and nudged him with her shoulder. "One day you'll stop hiding behind that curtain." She paused then added quietly, "And I'll be there when you do."
They fell into their rhythm again—sharing verses from Rumi and Neruda, debating love as rebellion or surrender. But sometimes now… Zaman would pause mid-sentence as if listening to something far away—a sound only he could hear.
One evening, while sketching lines about stars remembering forgotten names ("Do constellations grieve when they lose light?"), his fingers trembled faintly over the page before stopping altogether for several seconds.
Yelda noticed—but didn't say anything.
That night at home before bed:
He stood bare-chested in front of his mirror.
A faint bluish webbing veined across his chest—not visible unless you looked very closely—and only under moonlight.
He pressed two fingers just below his collarbone.
His heartbeat fluttered like wings against glass.
Then settled.
He whispered:
"I've got time."
But he didn't know how much was left.
Meanwhile—unseen wheels turned elsewhere…
In Vienna—the night had gone wrong for Safaan and Rukshar.
Their escape was betrayed.
Captured near Salzburg by men with silent guns,
Safaan took three bullets shielding Rukshar's back,
and vanished into darkness still whispering "run."
Now hunted herself,
Rukshar fled north—with bloodied letters stitched inside her coat…
one addressed to no one… signed: *To The Writer Who Knows Our Truth.*
She didn't know where it would go either—
only that somewhere out there…
someone wrote stories not for fame,
but because silence hurt more than pain.
To Be Continued...