Homa sat beside me on the edge of the bed, her own grief mirroring the mask I had put on. She gently rubbed my shoulders, her voice a fragile whisper.
"Don't... please, don't cry anymore," she said softly. "You're still so young to carry this weight."
I didn't answer. I simply struck my knee with my fist in a feigned burst of frustration. Daria entered the room then, stirring a glass of water. She sat in front of me, pressing the glass to my lips. I had no choice but to drink it to the last drop, feeling the cool liquid slide down my parched throat. They helped me lie back, pulling the blanket over my head as if to shield me from the world.
"Try to get some rest," Homa whispered before the door finally clicked shut.
The moment I was alone, the "grieving widow" vanished. I pushed the blanket aside, tied my hair up, and splashed my face with cold water. I spent the next hour silently rearranging my suitcase. Darkness had fallen over the estate, and no one came to check on me, likely assuming I was lost in a deep, traumatic sleep.
But I could hear them. From the upstairs landing, I could hear the clinking of silverware and the distant murmur of voices. I searched for one voice in particular—the one I had tried so hard to forget.
Sophia, my dear.
He was the only one who ever used my full name, never shortening it to Sofi. He was the only one who let the final 'a' linger on his tongue. I remembered telling him once, years ago, that I liked how he said it. He had only responded with a warm, certain smile—a smile that promised he wasn't going anywhere.
I was sitting on the bed, staring out the window and nervously turning the gold ring on my finger, when the door opened quietly. The ring slipped from my hand, vanishing beneath the bed frame.
Yas peeked her head inside. "Aunt... Mom said to call you for dinner."
I motioned for her to come closer. I picked up a chocolate bar from the table and kissed both her cheeks. She flushed instantly, her eyes wide.
"Don't be shy—call me Sofi," I whispered, handing her the chocolate. "Eat this after dinner, and don't let Uncle Boran see it, or it'll be gone in a second."
She let out a small giggle and slipped away. I knelt to find the ring, sweeping my hand blindly under the bed, but the floor was empty. I stood up, frustrated. It wasn't the loss of the ring that bothered me; it was the realization that I had to face him.
I hated that I still had to call him brother. Seven years ago, he had thrown my notebook to the ground, looked me in the eye, and said, "I am your brother."
"You're not," I had whispered back.
I smoothed my hair and stepped out. At the top of the stairs, I paused, listening. The television was loud, and the house was full of chatter, but his voice was missing. He was always the silence in the middle of the noise.
I descended slowly. Sam spotted me first. "Sofi—did you bring it?"
Daria pinched his arm, silencing him with a glare. My gaze shifted to Boran and Farhan. They both stood up immediately, but I refused to let my eyes drift toward the single armchair near the television. That was his territory.
I stepped into Boran and Farhan's embrace. Simultaneously, they both exclaimed, "You've grown so much!"
That made the fifth and sixth time I'd heard that phrase today.
Over Boran's shoulder, I saw Moein watching me. I walked over and kissed his hand in a show of respect. His rigid expression softened by a fraction.
"I'm so sorry for your loss," Moein said, his lips curling into a faint smile. "Homa was right—you really have grown."
The seventh.
"You got here all right?" Moein asked.
"Yes," I replied coolly. "Though the welcome wasn't exactly warm. I didn't think I'd be taking a taxi."
Daria looked up quickly. "We didn't even know you were arriving today, Sofi."
"I didn't know either," Farhan added, "otherwise I would've been at the airport."
Moein frowned, his gaze shifting. "I didn't know the timing either."
I swallowed hard, my heart beginning to hammer. "But... you booked my ticket yourselves."
Moein's frown deepened, but before he could speak, a voice from the armchair made the hairs on my arms stand on end.
"I did."
The voice was calm, heavy, and exactly as I remembered. I slowly pivoted toward the single armchair. Cyrus was still staring at the television, his profile like a statue carved from ice.
"Hello, Sophia," he said.
He used my full name, but the "my dear" was gone. I felt like a fool. I was the one who had torn our lifeline apart seven years ago; I had no right to expect anything else.
"Hello. Thank you for the ticket," I managed to say.
That was it. The sum total of our conversation after seven years of exile. He didn't look away from the screen. He didn't tell me I had grown. That eighth "you've grown" stayed lodged in my chest like a shard of glass.
I sat on the couch next to Daria, my back turned to him. I hadn't even seen his face properly.
"Hey, Sofi, how's it going?" Boran asked, trying to break the ice.
I shook my head aimlessly. Farhan leaned in, pressing my hand warmly. "You good?"
In that moment, I remembered my role. My husband was dead. My chin began to tremble, and I met Farhan's eyes. "No," I whispered.
The shock in Farhan's eyes was real—he knew me too well to believe my grief, but the others didn't. I let a sob break free and buried my face in Boran's chest.
After a while, I pulled away, wiping my eyes. Boran's phone rang, and he stepped away to answer it. Sam winked at me from across the room, reminding me of our secret.
"I'll go get the souvenirs," I said, standing up.
As I walked back toward the stairs, my gaze drifted toward the armchair one last time. Cyrus was still rigid, still staring at the news. I realized then that the silence between us was louder than any explosion.