In a train station with a cold floor. The color white envelops the station, as though the sky and the earth had finally merged. She glimpses a large figure with a covered face, runs toward him, and he embraces her while she clings to him. They breathe each other in, continuing this shyly.
She murmurs to herself, embarrassed:
"Uncle... I thought he was my father!"
And in his mind:
"Shams? I thought you were Khorshid... No matter, both are my daughters"
She wakes up, shielding her eyes from the bright sunlight, and sits for a moment before rising to wash her face.
She glances at the neighboring bed and finds it neatly made. Their only room was in the attic—small, holding nothing but two chairs, a table, a wardrobe, a few books scattered on the floor, and a window that Khorshid never fully closed, allowing the sun's rays to wake Shams.
She opens the chest entrusted to her by an old man named Khadranq, who had passed away days before. Inside are ordinary letters discussing daily life and names she doesn't recognize. The sheikh had not been from the village. He lived alone, without a wife or children. He had been a magic instructor in a village where people did not practice magic, though its benefits sometimes reached them through academic campaigns aimed at improving rural life.
She closes the chest without reading the letters this time.
She tells herself:
"It's no use. Even if he entrusted them to me, I can't decipher their codes or the protected magic. Maybe I was just a messenger"
She sighs and goes downstairs to help her aunt—that large, silent woman who neither gives orders nor scolds when someone makes a mistake.
When Khorshid first used magic, her aunt only said:
"Don't burn the house down."
And when Thawr fell in love with a divorced woman and wanted to marry her, she simply replied:
"We won't be her servants."
Shams greets her aunt in the morning, and the woman responds with a smile. As she chops vegetables, Shams confesses:
"I'm going to enroll in the Magic Academy, Auntie."
"Did the old man agree?"
"Uncle? I haven't told him yet, so I want your advice."
Her aunt pours two glasses of berry-and-hibiscus cocktail and hands them to her. Then, picking up the knife, she says:
"Go. He's in the courtyard."
Shams smiles, her eyes lingering on the red juice in the glasses and the knife left on the table. She steps past the kitchen and the sitting room toward the courtyard.
He sits in his rocking chair—a burly, forty-year-old man with long black hair coiled in spirals on his forehead. Using a spell he learned from Khorshid, he lights a pile of papers beside him.
The girl greets him. She wears her formal attire: a long black robe with a twisted collar embroidered with white roses. She sits across from him.
He studies the two glasses with his gray eyes, then asks:
"What do you want, Shams?"
She is startled by his intuition but maintains her rosy smile.
"Nine years have passed since your return, and as expected... my father won't be coming back. Not now, not ever."
"Who told you that?"
"It doesn't matter. Either way, it's the same. Whether he returns after ten years or never comes back... his presence is useless after all this time."
Her uncle laughs, his molars showing, and Shams laughs with him. Then he says:
"So?"
"Uncle... I have my own path, just as my father has his."
She looks at him steadily before adding:
"I'm leaving for the capital tomorrow to enroll in the Magic Academy."
Their gray eyes meet. A fleeting thought crosses her mind: His face doesn't resemble my father's. His hands are weak, his fingers smooth, unlike my father's large, rough palms. His face is always clean-shaven, while my father had a sharp mustache and a neatly trimmed beard. His hair is still black, whereas my father's grayed early. His body is lean, yet he carries a dignity I never saw in my father, who always seemed stronger but was broken... lost.
Her uncle says calmly:
"What are the two things that vanish at first glance?"
She is puzzled by his question, remembering the late village elder, Khadranq.
"I don't know..." she answers.
"I hope you'll answer that when your journey in the capital ends."
It is his way of granting permission. She kisses his hands, thanking him from the depths of her heart, but her smile fades. Her gratitude is silent, dry.
He gestures with his eyes toward :
"Your aunt agrees too."
Shams returns to the kitchen, carrying the lightness of approval, and helps her aunt prepare breakfast. Everyone gathers at the table: the young twins, Thawr, and her aunt, while her uncle and Khorshid are absent.
Shams watches the wall clock, long stopped, its hands frozen at ten minutes past two. Thawr's voice rises as he talks endlessly, his words turning into an unbearable buzz in her ears.
Her uncle enters, and Thawr immediately falls silent. Her uncle's presence commands such respect that it silences everyone.
"Where's Khorshid?" he asks, glancing around.
Khorshid enters at that moment, wearing a green dress tailored perfectly to her figure. She is tall, with short golden hair tied back and beautiful green eyes framed by thick lashes. She walks in as if she had been waiting for her cue. Her radiant smile softens her father's imposing aura.
We eat in silence. I steal glances at the stopped clock, hoping my uncle will notice and ask for it to be fixed before my departure.
Suddenly, he says:
"Wish Shams well."
Khorshid lifts her head, confusion evident in her knitted brows, as if scolding me for something she doesn't understand.
Her uncle continues calmly:
"Tomorrow, she bids us farewell. She's joining the Magic Academy."
The room falls silent. Even her aunt, usually quiet, seems heavier in her silence this time. She tries to smile, tries to speak, but doesn't. Shams realizes then that some silences cannot be put into words—a mix of fear, sorrow, and a deep awareness of the weight of the decision.
But Khorshid never surrenders to silence, even in the hardest moments.
"Why?!" she protests. "You can learn magic here, now! I'll teach you from this moment."
My eyes flick to the stopped clock. I have no answer, but I lift my head and say, my smile gone:
"My journey begins tomorrow. Sadly, I can't learn it here or now."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
I'm on the verge of losing control. Khorshid hadn't been home for two weeks—I never had the chance.
"I didn't have time."
I look at the stopped clock. No one else notices it... perhaps because my father was the one who gifted it to us, and no one remembers him but me.
Khorshid explodes in anger while I smile silently, murmuring without understanding. She storms out of the house, shouting:
"You're too cowardly to survive in the capital! Coward... who will stay with you? Who?!"
My uncle laughs apologetically. I excuse myself quietly, then decide to take the clock to the repairman.
Nine years have passed, and the clock remains stopped.
Shams stepped out carrying the clock, observing the shifting contours of her village. Here was the grocery store where everything could be found, and there, the farms where they bought what they needed during harvest. Small houses and large, single-story and two-story homes—no dark corners in the roads. The sun struck the stones, warming them in winter, scorching them in summer.
It was a large village, its residents scattered along the edges, each family clustered in its own area. At the center, a ten-minute walk away, atop a hill to the right, stood the watchmaker's house. Two trees and colorful flowers flanked its entrance, their branches embracing the roof's peak.
Shams knocked on the door.
Footsteps approached, and the door opened.
"Hello! Who's there?"
A young woman's voice. She half-closed her eyes, shielding them from the sunlight filtering through the leaves. A cigarette burned between her lips, its smoke dissipating above her head. Her black hair was braided into a long plait, and her hazel eyes studied the visitor with curiosity.
"A customer? Well, my grandfather's sick right now, but I can fix it."
She left the door open and gestured for Shams to enter.
Shams stepped inside quietly, her eyes following the girl's long braid. Then she said:
"It's not just any clock. Fixing it won't be easy."
The girl replied confidently:
"I can fix any clock. Don't worry."
"We tried fixing it nine years ago. It didn't work."
"How old is it?"
"...Maybe twenty years."
Shams sat in a room nearly empty of repair tools and wondered why. The girl answered simply:
"I'll fix it with magic."
Shams, surprised, asked:
"Are you a jinn expert?"
The girl smirked, stubbed out her cigarette, and took the small clock—its Eastern engravings and moving spheres emitting a distorted, symphonic chime.
"Magic undoes magic."
Shams stared at her, wondering if that was true, but found no answer. She wrote down her name, then excused herself to leave.
Just before she stepped out, she asked:
"Are you a sorceress?"
The girl replied:
"Not exactly."
Shams left the watchmaker's house. As usual, the village was quiet—just the occasional bark of a dog, the clucking of a chicken, or muffled arguments behind walls. Sometimes, children raced through the alleys. The smallest—or the naughtiest—would bump into her, trying to steal something, but finding nothing to take.
She passed a group of men chatting, who quickly dispersed as she walked by. Eyes followed her... in a village where nothing changed, every step became noticeable.
She turned left toward the north, passing the only abandoned house in the village. Tree branches embraced its walls, and balcony flowers covered the dusty glass.
She whispered to herself:
"As if nature itself has settled into Khadranq's house."
She sighed but didn't enter the courtyard, even though it was a shortcut to the river. The door was locked... or maybe she just hated the idea of someone thinking she was stealing.
She circled the house, taking the long route, and leaned against the trunk of one of the old trees near his home. She watched the reflection of the setting sun on the windows.
For a moment, she gazed at the sunset, then looked around in confusion before sitting down, calming herself, as if bidding farewell to this patch of earth.
She remembered her first magic lesson with him... disguised as a boy among boys.
"Magic is only used by the wicked or the weakest. The entities you call upon for help are weak—humans can defeat them."
"Do you know of vampires?!"
"How has no one heard of them? Damn magic and its teachings."
She recalled a practical lesson where everyone failed. The old man exploded in anger and punished them by making them clean his farm and courtyard. That was how her identity was revealed—when he yanked the scarf off her face. Those who recognized her tried to cover for her:
"This is Jahad, the carpenter's son. Look at his pale skin—he works in a closed room."
"Which girl would be drawn to studying magic? There's nothing attractive about a sorceress unless she's killed."
But the old man... had a different opinion.
Suddenly, she opened her eyes.
"Did I fall asleep?"
She calmed when she saw the hunter's star emerge behind the mountains.
"Nine or ten o'clock... Fine, four more hours."
Then... a rustling. A whisper between the leaves. Before she could turn, a forceful shove sent her tumbling onto a pile of leaves that hadn't been there hours before.
She braced herself on her hands, and as she turned, a foot pinned her to the ground.
Darkness loomed, but she wasn't afraid—because a soft, mocking voice cut through her panic:
"What do we have here? A girl sleeping in the open until nightfall? My God, how will I explain this scene to Father?"
"Khorshid!"
Shams grabbed her slender leg, flipped onto her back, and pulled Khorshid's leg to her chest, staring up at her.
"Your underwear, cousin!" she thought, closing her eyes in embarrassment.
Khorshid pressed down on her chest until Shams choked, then ignited a fire beside them, its sparks dancing on Shams' face.
"See this?"
Shams opened her eyes. The sound of the letter box opening snapped her back to awareness.
"Why do you have that?!"
Khorshid's face flickered with angry firelight.
"Is this why you're going to the capital?!"
She didn't give Shams a chance to answer. She tossed the torn letters into the air, and they scattered before the flames devoured them.
Shams tried to salvage what she could, but the fire was faster. She stopped, sat on the ground, a handful of dirt piled beside her. She clenched it tightly—almost roaring—but then sighed.
She remembered her father... the old man...
She stood, dusting off her hands.
Khorshid mocked her:
"Sorcerers are criminals. Murderers. They're the reason the south was destroyed, the reason people were killed, blah blah..."
"...When was the last time you hit me? Ten years ago? Hmm."
"Who was it that swore only the wicked or the weakest use magic?"
"You remind me of our early days. When I asked you to sing because your voice was beautiful."
"....."
"Heh, I just wanted to hear a song I've forgotten now—but it would've been lovely in your voice. Instead, you ended up pushing me into the river."
"I'd never heard singing in my life back then. But you reminded me—where's the river?"
Shams looked around and sighed as she stepped onto dry land.
Khorshid left her with a frustrated sigh and glanced around:
"There used to be a river here..."
"It dried up a year ago."
They walked side by side in silence. Then Shams smiled faintly:
"You know? If you'd hurt me earlier, I wouldn't have told you this pointless bit of trivia."
Khorshid retorted sarcastically:
"Forgive me. I really wanted to bury you... I waited two whole hours."
Shams stopped, giving her a long look, then said:
"That old man... was from my city. The city that was wiped out."
Khorshid stared at her in shock.
Shams continued:
"Yes. I remember him... and everything about him. I know his family. My father worked for him."
"Did he know where your father was?"
Shams smiled but didn't answer. She stayed silent, as if guarding something bigger.
"So you... you're really leaving tomorrow?"
"Yes. But not because of the letters, believe me. They're just something to finish up."
Shams walked ahead, two steps ahead of Khorshid, without looking back. Then, in a broken but clear voice:
"Goodbye."
Everyone was asleep when Shams returned home. She entered the attic room and lay on her bed, watching the shadows cast by the slanted wooden ceiling.
A moment later, Khorshid slipped in quietly, closing the door behind her without a sound.
Shams noticed the box in her hands. They exchanged glances in silence for seconds that felt like hours. Khorshid sat cross-legged on the floor and let out a sigh tinged with amusement, as if trying to reclaim her usual spirit.
She said:
"I saw a ghost."
"A ghost?"
"It gave me back these papers."
Shams tilted her head slightly, puzzled, while Khorshid stared at the box.
"Why didn't you tell me before... that the old man knew you?"
Shams didn't answer. She sat facing her, her gaze fixed on Khorshid's eyes, as if searching for the right moment to say something she'd held onto for years.
After a heavy silence, she said:
"The day I disguised myself as a boy to attend magic lessons... the old man took me aside, hugged me, and cried. My memory failed me, but... he showed me some pictures."
Shams opened the box and carefully pulled out one of the letters. From it, she retrieved an old thermal photograph.
Khorshid gasped.
"This? I can't believe it!"
In the photo was a girl of four or five, wearing a green robe that draped over her small frame. Her hair was a deep blue, almost black, save for the sunlight reflecting off it. Her wide gray eyes and the sharp pink imprint of her lips stood out against her serious expression and full cheeks. Behind her loomed a massive waterwheel in the heart of a large city.
Khorshid studied the photo, and slowly, the tension in the room eased. Something between them had finally broken.
---
Shams found herself in the middle of a large family breakfast the next day—she hadn't realized she was this loved. She stole glances at her uncle, laughing with some young men, and searched for Khorshid, who was nowhere to be seen.
The morning hours slipped away too quickly. The day of departure was governed by lost time.
She didn't hear a single word from her aunt. She bid them farewell. The imported car rolled forward.
Khorshid had been waiting inside—she hated crowds.
The whole way, their hands remained intertwined. Khorshid's chatter never ceased. She dredged up the past, confessing things they'd never spoken of before.
They reached the port. The sky met the earth on the horizon.
Khorshid pulled her into an embrace.
"I understand now."
Her voice was hoarse, her eyes gleaming. She buried her face in Shams' chest, her arms slack.
"What does the traveler understand now?"
Shams laughed, forcing the tears back down her throat.
"I never truly loved the village. But I hate leaving you."
Later, Shams sat on one of the ship's chairs, remembering the moment of her departure. She bid everything behind her farewell through tears that hadn't stopped since she left Khorshid weeping on the shore.
"You?"
A rough voice, barely audible, shattered her emotional moment. She didn't recognize it until she wiped her tears and half-covered her face with a pink handkerchief.
She turned her whole body, searching for the source.
"You're the one who left your clock with us yesterday?
...
**To be continued.**