ã€ŠThere You Areã€‹


 Chapter - 1

    "We Were Almost a Story"

    She came to me in my dreams last night. Her presence was ethereal, almost like a ghost, drifting towards me. Desperate, I called out to her, "Free me from this pain, take me with you." But she didn''t respond. My eyes opened to the stark reality of my surroundings¡ªthe cold white ceiling looming above me, its sterile silence broken only by my laboured breathing. I could feel sweat drenching my body, though the chill of winter wrapped around the city outside. I turned my head slowly, gazing out the window, where the streets of New York lay blanketed in snow. There was a quiet beauty to it, a cruel contrast to the turmoil inside me. In moments like this, winter seemed to beckon, whispering promises of rest, of an end. I stood there for what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, staring at the lifeless world beyond the glass, wondering if I could ever truly live again. I followed her voice in my head, doing everything she once told me, everything except taking that final step into oblivion.

    That day was a blur, but certain memories pierced through like shards of glass: Michael''s frantic shouting, the blaring sirens of the ambulance, and the rare expression of fear on my father''s face. It was an emotion I had never associated with him before. This was a man who had not shed a single tear when Alex, his eldest son, took his own life. Not even when his wife, Serena Jewels, left him for another man.

    Arthur Ardel was known throughout New York as a virtuoso who had reached the pinnacle of success. His name was emblazoned across glossy magazine covers, his music filled the air in every store and caf¨¦, and his face was plastered on posters all over the city. To everyone else, he was a legend, a master of his craft, an icon. But to me, he was nothing more than a tyrant, a man who had forced me to live a life I never wanted. He pushed me into a role I despised, trying to mould me into Alex''s image, as though I could ever take his place. My resentment grew like a cancer, eating away at me from the inside. I hated Alex for leaving, for abandoning me, for dumping the weight of his legacy on my shoulders. But most of all, I hated my father, the man who seemed to see me as nothing more than a replacement for his fallen son.

    The weight of it all crushed me. It felt like the entire world was against me like I was being hunted by shadows I couldn''t escape. Strangers would stop us on the street, whispering behind our backs, "What a tragedy, his brother killed himself." People we''d never met before suddenly had opinions about our lives. They''d say things like, "With all that wealth, how could something like this happen?" As if money could buy back the dead as if riches could undo the loss of life. It made me sick. I thought about ending it all more times than I can count, but every time, fear held me back. The fear of pain, of what lay on the other side. And so, I cried myself to sleep, night after night, drowning in a sea of grief¡ªuntil I met her.

    "Dread walks beside hope; hope walks alongside fear." That''s what she told me the first time I called her "hope." It seemed cryptic at the time, a puzzle I couldn''t quite understand. I didn''t know then that she was right¡ªhow hope and fear were like twins, inseparable, walking hand in hand through the shadows of life.

    My eyes grew heavy with exhaustion, not from lack of sleep but from the constant stream of tears I could never hold back. Every time I thought of them¡ªAlex, my mother, her¡ªI wept. And it was in that half-waking, half-dreaming state that I opened my eyes to see Michael standing in my doorway. His face was etched with concern, his brow furrowed. I blinked a few times, disoriented, trying to understand why he was there. Seven in the morning¡ªwhat could he possibly want?

    Michael never came unannounced, not without a reason. That''s how I knew something was off. "What do you want?" I asked, my voice thick with fatigue. His eyes darted around my apartment, scanning for anything that might give him a reason to worry¡ªanything sharp, anything dangerous.

    I sighed. "Relax, Michael," I muttered, "I haven''t tried anything since I converted." My voice was flat, emotionless as if even that admission meant nothing to me anymore. His face softened slightly, though the concern never fully left his eyes.

    Francis Morais, Michael''s father, was one of New York''s most talented and renowned architects, but to me, Michael was more than the son of a famous man. He had been Alex''s closest friend since childhood. They had shared everything¡ªsecrets, laughter, dreams. Michael was like a brother to me, too, and when Alex brought him into our lives, it felt like he had always belonged. The three of us would spend hours playing video games, immersing ourselves in fantasy worlds where pain didn''t exist, where life was simple.

    Michael had always admired Alex and always looked up to him. I still remember the excitement in his voice when he''d say, "When we grow up, I''ll work for Alex. We''ll be unstoppable." None of us knew then that not all dreams come true. After Alex died, Michael started pulling away, visiting less and less. I thought maybe he needed space and time to heal. It wasn''t until later that I found out he had started working for my father''s company.

    Even though he distanced himself, Michael never stopped caring. He treated me like a younger brother, always looking out for me, always there when I needed him. He was there the night I tried to kill myself. He was the one who found me. Sometimes, I''d stare up at the night sky, searching for them among the stars, hoping they could see me, hoping they could hear my cries. I wanted to believe that they were scolding me for not being able to move on.

    The days were suffocating, and the nights were unbearably cold. People told me to keep going, to push through the pain, but they didn''t understand how hard that was. I tried¡ªI tried so hard. But when I failed, I screamed. The memories of those I lost were chains around my heart, binding me to a past I could never escape. Their faces were fading from my mind, slipping away like sand through my fingers. I was terrified that one day I wouldn''t be able to remember them at all.

    How do you mourn someone if you can no longer picture their face?

    I wept for them, over and over, each tear like a knife to my soul. I destroyed anything that reminded me of them. I shattered objects in my grief, trying to release the anger that simmered beneath the surface. I hated them for leaving me. I hated God for taking them. I hated the world for moving on without me.Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

    The day I first tried to take my life was terrifying. My hands trembled as I held the knife, cold and sharp against my skin. But I was determined. What was the point of living when everyone I loved had abandoned me? After Alex''s death, my father vanished. He acted as if I didn''t exist, as if I wasn''t his son. For three months, I sat at the dinner table alone, the servants bringing me food, waiting for him to come back. He never did. Eventually, I convinced myself that he had died too, that he had left me just like the others.

    I wanted him gone. I wanted him to disappear forever.

    I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn''t hear Michael speaking. His hand shook my shoulder, pulling me out of the abyss.

    "Aubrey, you''re zoning out again," he said, his voice filled with concern. His eyes searched mine, looking for some sign of life, some spark.

    The past never truly left me.

    "What did you say?" I asked, shaking my head as if to clear it. Michael sighed, repeating himself with the patience of someone who had done this far too many times.

    "The show starts at 11 a.m. You need to finalize which paintings will be displayed by 9," he explained. "You''ll have an hour to yourself before the interviews begin." He squeezed my shoulder gently, offering what little comfort he could. "This exhibition is your chance, Aubrey. Your chance to be free. To finally show the world what''s inside you. It''s not your father''s music this time¡ªit''s your art. This is your moment."

    I nodded, though his words felt heavy, almost suffocating. This exhibition was supposed to be my salvation, my way out of the endless cycle of grief and pain. Ayah had fought for this, for me. She should have been here, standing beside me, sharing this moment.

    "I miss you, Ayah Ferdous," I whispered, my voice barely audible.

    The moment had come. The morning sun poured through the wide glass windows of my penthouse, casting a warm, golden light over the snow-covered streets below. From the 30th floor, New York stretched out before me, the city glittering under a blanket of white. For a moment, I imagined what it would be like to jump, to fall into the snow, to feel its soft embrace.

    The trees below, their branches stripped bare by winter, stood like skeletons against the sky. They had lost everything, just like me.

    On the day we held hands, we were so close that I could feel her heartbeat in sync with mine. The world seemed to disappear as we stood together, and I could still make out the hill where we had once watched fireworks explode across the night sky. Her gaze locked with mine, and in that moment, I felt like the universe had aligned just for us. I silently vowed to God that I would never let this woman go. She was mine, and she always would be. Every time I saw her standing in front of me, I would say, "There you are," as though it were the first time, every time.

    As I delved deeper into our memories, I felt intoxicated by the overwhelming emotion they stirred in me. These days have been terrifying. The time I spend thinking about her grows with every passing day. I can''t help but wonder¡ªis there a sense of loneliness up there where she is? Today, I was going to tell the world about our love story. I would present her to the world, not just as a lover, but as a proud husband. My sweltering nights, once haunted by sorrow, had been replaced with dreams of the places I imagined we might see together. The entire world would hear about her, about us. As Ayah once said, our narrative would be the fairytale everyone dreams of, yet fears to pursue.

    We had so many destinations we wanted to visit, from the bustling streets of New York to the quiet deserts of her homeland in Saudi Arabia. Our promises to each other were deeply etched in our hearts. We were two worlds apart¡ªno, two worlds intertwined by fate. Our love was nurtured by the words we shared, the memories we created, the laughter we exchanged, and the hardships we endured. Time and fate were always against us, but never once did I regret loving her.

    The cold bite of winter hit me as Michael spoke, snapping me out of my thoughts. "Aubrey, we have to leave," he announced. I double-checked myself in the mirror, taking in the sight of my red coat and straightening the black collar of my shirt. My hair was slicked back, and I wore a mixture of scarlet and black, the colours blending perfectly. Michael stood beside me, holding a stack of papers, his usual black suit immaculately pressed.

    My unease grew as we got closer to our destination. The journey felt surreal as if time itself had blurred. It seemed like just yesterday that Ayah was fighting my father, insisting that I should be allowed to paint again. Alex had been the one with a passion for music, for the violin. But when Alex was gone, my father tried to mould me into his replacement. Suddenly, everything began to make sense again. Huge self-portraits hung around us, crowds gathered in anticipation of seeing my first works of art, and eager reporters prepared their stories about the long-lost Aubrey Ardel, making his triumphant return.

    I couldn''t help but laugh when I noticed a few images of my brother scattered throughout the city. Instead of feeling sadness or anger, I smiled as if Alex were right there with me, silently rooting for my success. Michael looked perplexed by my sudden outburst of laughter, but I just smiled wider. Today was the day when my paintings would connect the world with the people I loved. Especially a beautiful soul who left me on the first day of snow, seven years ago.

    The exhibition hall was packed. I could hardly believe how many people had come to see my art. In the past, when I held the violin, playing for thousands of spectators¡ªsome of whom had travelled from other countries just to watch me¡ªmy heart had always felt hollow. No matter how many people cheered, I felt nothing. Whether the melody was joyous or sorrowful, I remained numb. It was as if I had left all my emotions in a place I could no longer reach.

    When I played, the music echoed in my ears, but it never reached my soul. Every note felt off, and no matter how well I performed, nothing resonated with what was inside me. Yet, every time I finished, thunderous applause filled the hall as if I had created another masterpiece. On rare occasions, I would find myself crying during a performance, but it wasn''t because of the music. It was because I felt trapped. I see now how pathetic that was. People often say that the most captivating part of my concerts was when I became so immersed in the music that I allowed my emotions to pour out. They thought I felt every note deeply, but I was merely lost in my emptiness.

    I still vividly remember my final performance. I told the audience it would be my last and introduced Ayah as the start of a new chapter in my life. Cameras flashed, capturing every moment as I stood there, not just as a musician but as a man in love. I had found both the person and the passion I wanted to dedicate myself to. I chuckled, feeling confident that soon we would be together¡ªno more hiding, no more pretending.

    We stood there, smiling at each other, our eyes locked in a silent conversation as if reassuring one another that everything would be alright. Our love had bloomed in the harshest of winters, and for a time, it seemed unstoppable. But then, a storm came¡ªstronger than either of us had anticipated¡ªand it tore through the garden of our love, causing the flower to wilt and fall.

    Now, as I stand here, on the verge of showing the world the paintings that Ayah fought so hard for me to create, I feel both pride and sorrow. Today, I''ll share our story, a love that transcended time, distance, and loss. She may be gone, but through these paintings, her memory will live on forever.

 Chapter - 2

    Unveiling the love

    The floor beneath me was covered in pristine white marble, so polished that I could see my reflection as I walked. The walls were a masterpiece in themselves, modelled after the grandeur of the Renaissance period. Elaborate wall panels displayed intricate designs left behind by some forgotten artist, their genius evident in every detail. The corners of the room were adorned with the opulent embellishments of French Renaissance style, gilded accents gleaming faintly under the light. A massive chandelier hung from the towering ceiling, its cascading crystals scattering light across the room, illuminating the space in a soft, ethereal glow. Large vases filled to the brim with red and white roses lined the hallway, their sweet fragrance permeating the air, as if attempting to invoke memories of the building''s grand history.

    As I walked down the hallway, I passed by my paintings, three hanging on each wall. I couldn''t help but pause, lost in the memories of when I had first created them. One painting, titled *The Trio*, depicted three children linking their arms around each other''s shoulders, dressed in their school uniforms, their faces beaming with happiness. Another painting was of the backyard of our childhood home, a serene scene with a swan gracefully gliding through a pond filled with water lilies. The last was a portrait of my brother, painted shortly after he passed away. His memories, his dreams, and his essence still live on in my heart, immortalized on canvas.

    Soft instrumental music drifted from the main hall, setting the mood. As I stood there, my mind began to wander, imagining scenarios that could never be. In my daydreams, two lovers danced to the heavenly music playing in the background, wrapped in each other''s arms. They moved gracefully, so near and mesmerized by one another''s eyes, yet hesitating to express the depth of their feelings. The woman''s ball gown, made of luxurious lapis lazuli fabric, followed their every step, gently brushing against the marble floor. She looked like a princess, a vision of elegance and beauty¡ªAubrey''s princess.

    With every deep breath, I felt the tension in my body ease. My right hand tingled as if it were being held, and I imagined someone resting their head on my shoulder, whispering, "My darling, you are doing exceptionally well." Sometimes, I could lose myself in my imagination, and I smiled at the thought. She was the one who got away, and I was the one who stayed¡ªwaiting every single day for us to meet again.

    Each morning, as sunlight pierced through the darkness of my sleep, I felt her warmth once more. The laughter of children reminded me of her smile, a smile so pure and full of life. Life, I realized, is a long, meandering journey, taking us through goals and ambitions. People who fail are often too scared to try again, terrified of falling short once more. I was no different. Fear of the unknown haunted me, and I still wonder¡ªwhat if we achieve the goals we set? What comes next? Another goal, another chase? It pains me to admit, but true peace seems unreachable until the day we lie on the ground, our view of the sky obscured. When that day comes, I''ll greet death like an old friend.

    If I had the chance, I would fall in love with her all over again. I would carry flowers to her door and kneel on one knee, asking for her heart once more.

    As I stood lost in thought, the staff quietly prepared for the evening''s event. One of the head staff approached the enormous door and opened it with a grand gesture, revealing the hall behind it. Michael maintained his stance at the entrance, welcoming guests as they arrived. The once-empty corridors now echoed with the unfamiliar sound of footsteps. With each new pair of steps, my heart raced faster.

    Some of the guests who stood before my paintings had glistening eyes, moved by the emotions they evoked, while others appeared poised to pass judgment. I paused to catch my breath as if I had just completed a marathon, before introducing myself to these strangers. Why was I so afraid? It wasn''t fear of criticism; it was something else, something deeper.

    I continued greeting everyone, some familiar faces, others new. Some complimented my work, others admired my appearance, and a few seemed to be there just to mock me. But despite everything, it was heartwarming to see so many people. I had been isolated from the world for the past seven years, painting in the shadows, consumed by grief, screaming internally over her loss. If only I could rip my heart from my chest, maybe the suffocating torment would cease. Seeing so many people after all this time was overwhelming, especially considering I had once performed in front of thousands with my violin. The Aubrey I was seven years ago died with Ayah, and I was grateful for it.Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

    Amidst the crowd, I hadn''t noticed my in-laws arrive until I was enveloped in a sudden hug. The weight of a large hand on my shoulder grounded me, and when I pulled back, I saw a man dressed in a traditional white thobe. Beside him stood a beautiful woman, her husband, and their five-year-old daughter, all waving at me. It was Ayah''s sister, Hayat, her husband, Aaban Qureshi, and my father-in-law, Mr. Zuhaib Ferdous. I couldn''t contain my joy, "Abbu, I can''t believe you made it."

    "How could I miss my son-in-law''s exhibition?" he replied with a grin.

    His excitement was infectious, and I chuckled in response. I bent down to the little girl''s level, smiling as I playfully pinched her nose. "How''s my Noor doing?" I asked, watching as she scrunched her nose and pouted.

    "Mom didn''t buy me cotton candy, so that''s not nice," she whined.

    Hayat sighed as I made eye contact with her, silently asking for clarification. "She already had one cotton candy and was begging for another. We had to say no."

    Aaban, too, expressed his concerns about Noor eating too many sweets.

    Before I could respond, Mr Ferdous chimed in, defending his granddaughter''s desires. Noor beamed, clearly proud of the support from her grandfather.

    The concept of love had always been difficult for me to define, but in that moment, I understood it. Love is in the small, quiet acts of care¡ªthe way someone gently cracks an egg early in the morning to make an omelette for their loved one, even before they''ve gotten out of bed. It''s finding a stray cat shivering in the cold and bringing it inside to care for it. It''s staying up late to watch a game, cheering for your favourite team. Love isn''t an emotion; it''s a sensation, a warmth that can''t be captured with mere words. Even when love fades into fear, anger, or sorrow, if you look closely, you''ll always find a flicker of it in your heart.

    Today, I felt that love.

    Finally, the moment everyone had been waiting for arrived. After seven long years, I was ready to unveil my masterpiece. A short man entered the room with great flair, his wrists and fingers weighed down with bracelets and gold rings. He cleared his throat and began his speech, recounting his journey into the art world and how his business sought to discover and promote young artists. The first half of his speech was more of a promotion for his brand than an introduction to my work, but I listened quietly, my nerves bubbling beneath the surface.

    "Now, let me present to you our young star, Aubrey Ardel, ladies and gentlemen."

    The applause erupted, and I could hear my in-laws clapping enthusiastically beside me. My father-in-law even let out his signature whistle.

    Michael nudged me to take the stage, but as I stepped forward, microphone in hand, I could feel the weight of every gaze in the room. The walls seemed to close in, and the air grew stifling. I felt smothered by the attention, until my eyes found her in the crowd¡ªapplauding for me, smiling. I knew she wasn''t there, but for a fleeting moment, I believed she was.

    "Seven years ago," I began, my voice shaking, "I met someone as exquisite as snow and as fierce as fire."

    I chuckled at the memory. "I was enchanted by her the first time we met but I had walls built up. But over time, she peeled back the layers I had built around myself, showing me the beauty in the world that I had been too blind to see. We fell in love¡ªan impossible, inexplicable love¡ªbut we denied it for as long as we could."

    I paused, my breath hitching as tears blurred my vision. "True loves," I continued, my voice barely a whisper, "can never stay apart."

    My body began to tremble, and I lost sight of her in the crowd. Panic rose in my chest, my breathing quickened, and I could feel an attack coming on. Michael recognized the signs immediately and ushered me off the stage, guiding me towards my in-laws. Aaban''s strong arms supported me as he led me to a chair, while Michael took over, handling the situation with his usual calm.

    Two men carried a large, veiled painting onto the stage. The crowd''s anticipation grew as they waited for the reveal. The red veil covered the masterpiece, hiding it from view. Michael rushed over to check on me. "I can''t do this," I whispered. "You unveil it."

    "Aubrey, I can''t. This is your moment," he insisted.

    We bickered quietly, while the audience grew restless.

    "I can''t," I repeated, my voice trembling.

    Then, from behind me, a familiar voice said, "Yes, you can." It was my father.

    Arthur Ardel stood before me, his sharp features and emerald eyes unmistakable. The Ardels had always stood out, their striking appearance making them recognizable in any crowd. The room buzzed with whispers as people realized there were two Ardels present, an uncommon sight.

    "Dad," I murmured.

    He didn''t need to say anything. He simply placed his hands on my shoulders and gave them a gentle squeeze. That small gesture was enough. It meant everything to me.

    I stood up, facing the audience once more, my heart pounding in my chest. With trembling hands, I reached for the red veil. This was it¡ªmy confession to the world, my revelation. Thirty-five television stations were broadcasting the exhibition live, and curiosity hung thick in the air.

    Taking a deep breath, I pulled the veil away, revealing the painting at last.

 Chapter - 3

    These memories refuse to let her fade. My mind is stubbornly anchored to her presence, and my heart clings to her as though it might drift away if it ever let go.

    I often find myself lost in daydreams of the life we could have shared. I picture introducing her to my friends, their smiles and support as we exchanged vows. In my dreams, we''d awaken in each other''s arms every morning, each day a testament to how deeply I cared for her. Michael would stand proudly by my side as my best man, and Hayat, radiant in her flowing gown, would be a beautiful bridesmaid. Her father would walk her down the aisle with pride, while my own father would bless our union with a tender touch. The moment I kissed her as my wife would be the pinnacle of my existence. I''d cook her breakfast each day, surprise her with flowers, and whisk her away on spontaneous dates. We''d pray together, and every day, I would find myself falling deeper into the embrace of her love.

    If only I could break free from this suffocating loneliness. I''d defy any rule, take any risk, even trade my life just to bring her back. I would switch places with her without a second thought. If I had known she was leaving, I would have moved heaven and earth to keep her here. Nothing compares to the anguish of knowing she''s truly gone.

    My artwork, a piece of my soul etched into every brushstroke, was finally revealed. The canvas, once a mere reflection of my love for Ayah, now stood as a testament to her beauty.

    She was captured in all her splendor: her chestnut hair shimmering like fire under the sun, her eyes twinkling with the light of distant stars, and her enchanting smile capable of melting even the iciest hearts. She held an iris delicately, breathing in its sweet fragrance with a graceful, Grecian nose. Her gaze, intense and entrancing, seemed to lock onto me as if she were reaching out from another realm. In the painting, she sat amidst a vast field of irises, their vibrant colors surrounding her like a sea of dreams. I imagined her dress as woven from the purest pearls, catching every glint of light. There she was, laughing, her joy captured in the vibrant colors and intricate details¡ªbefore she faded away once more.

    No matter how hard I searched the night sky, none of the stars shone as brightly as she did. I still hold on to her memory, clutching it desperately. She was like a drug I never intended to become addicted to, yet I am. I can laugh and smile around others, but with her, my laughter was a melody of pure love that made my heart flutter. Couldn''t she have stayed just a little longer?

    I find myself falling in love with her anew. Her absence has left bruises that have healed over time, but the scars remain. And still, she smiles in my memory.

    As the curtain lifted on my painting, the exhibition hall erupted into life. My father gave me a distant smile, his lips forming the words, "Well done," while Hayat and her father-in-law wiped away tears. Michael, standing among the crowd, nodded with astonished approval.

    "Who was Ayah Ferdous?" some might ask.

    "Why did Alex Ardel take his own life?"

    These are the questions people might seek answers to.

    Why couldn''t she have stayed a little longer? I never had the chance to say goodbye. Losing Ayah shattered my soul. Losing Alex had already fractured my mind, but losing her destroyed my heart. I became a broken man, crying out in silence to a world that remained indifferent. I tried to ignore the reality of her absence, but the certainty that I would never again touch her, never again see my brother''s shadow¡ªit was crushing. You can''t truly understand this kind of pain unless you experience it yourself.

    I drifted into a daydream, so absorbed that the reporter had to repeat his question twice before I realized he was speaking to me.This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    "Who is the person in your painting?" he asked, his tone tinged with irritation.

    "Ayah Ferdous," I replied softly, my voice barely above a whisper.

    "And where exactly is the location depicted in the painting?" he pressed, clearly seeking more detail.

    "We never visited a place like that," I said, my voice heavy with longing. "It''s a place we dreamed about. Before we could ever go there, she was already gone."

    I had so much more to say, but how could I capture her essence in just a few words?

    The audience, seated in the center of the room, watched intently, while reporters sat in the back, impatiently waiting their turn. Michael and one of my sponsors fielded questions from the media. I had prepared for this moment all my life, but no question had ever made me falter¡ªuntil now. The room was as pristine as fresh snow, the walls adorned with the works of various artists who had once stood where I now stood. Marble vases filled with Hogan cherries stood elegantly on tables, and the buzz of cameras and scribbling pens created a backdrop of white noise.

    A reporter stepped forward, microphone in hand, her voice slicing through the din. "Mr. Ardel, why were you absent from the public eye for seven years while your father made frequent appearances?"

    The question pierced my heart. How could anyone expect me to be whole after losing everything? I was ensnared in a loop of memories, haunted by a darkness that followed me relentlessly. I yearned for every part of her¡ªher presence, her soul, her flaws, her tears, her smile¡ª*all of her*. I wanted to keep her locked away from the world so that no one could take her from me. And if they did, I''d ensure they would regret it.

    "I needed time to organize my thoughts," I replied, my voice cracking. "I was deeply involved in my art career, and I wasn''t sure if I wanted to continue.""Seven years seems excessive, don''t you think?" she persisted. "Is there anything else you''d like to add?"

    "It really depends on the person," I said, my patience wearing thin. "Some people can sort through their thoughts quickly, but for others, like me, it takes years. There was no other reason for my absence."

    "Was it because of Alex''s death?"

    Before I could respond, Michael interjected. "Two questions per reporter, please. Let''s move on to the next."

    The reporter and many others looked disappointed. So many faces yearned for answers, but the constraints of time cut their inquiries short.

    After fielding countless questions, I was finally free. I stood by the window, cradling a cup of coffee, staring out at the clear night sky. Despite all that I had achieved that evening, a hollow emptiness remained where she should have been. The moon loomed large, lonely without its constellation of stars. Like the moon, I felt incomplete. New York was alive with brilliance, brighter than the night sky, but I was too weary to bear the weight of the scars left by Alex and Ayah.

    I felt pitiful¡ªtrapped in the past. But when a heart falls deeply in love, it remembers that person until its final beat.

    The ring of my phone broke the silence. It was surprising to see my father''s name on the screen, as we hadn''t spoken directly in years. Most messages from Arthur Ardel came through Michael or the company executives.

    "Dad," I answered, my voice tinged with surprise.

    On the other end, I heard Mr. Ferdous''s chuckle.

    "Why did you call?" I asked, trying to mask my exhaustion.

    "I wanted to congratulate you on a job well done," he said, his voice warm. "Will you see her tomorrow?"

    "Hmmm."

    "Expect a guest tomorrow," he added.

    I groaned inwardly. I was already drained from the day''s events. The last thing I wanted was to entertain a guest.

    "I refuse," I said, my tone resolute.

    "It''s already been arranged. You can''t say no," his voice was calm yet insistent.

    "Why bother calling if it was already settled?" I asked, frustration creeping in.

    "Just to let you know," he said, his pride evident.

    What a day. I might just run away rather than face another guest after everything that happened tonight.

    I glanced at the book on my nightstand, *My Hands Are Soiled with Red*. It was a story about a man who killed for the sake of his lover. To love someone so deeply that you''d commit murder¡ªsuch love requires a special kind of madness.

    I admired the meticulous way the character pursued his dark obsession.

    If I were in his shoes, would I have done the same? Who knows? If I did, I''d ensure no trace was left behind, not even a body. The author''s craft fascinated me.

    I can have anything I ask for, yet here I am, yearning for love¡ªsomething I cannot command.

    "Snowflake, please, come back," I whispered into the empty room, my voice barely breathing. "Please."

 Chapter - 4

    Six feet under

    Wherever she goes, I pray she finds me there, waiting for her. Someone must have created her with an abundance of love and care because I doubt I''ll ever encounter another soul with such grace and playfulness. My life was like a kite, tethered securely in my own hands, but she entered my world only to cut the string and set it free. The simplest, most trivial things would cause her eyes to light up with wonder. Her smile captivated me from the moment we met; even when she stood face-to-face with death, she smiled as if she was finally returning home. She sacrificed her life to save mine¡ªshe cared for me that much. And on the night I lost her, it felt like I too was consumed by the same flames that took her away.

    Our love was like sand in an hourglass, with each grain slipping through faster than we could grasp. Her smile radiated like the sun, and her face mirrored the serenity of the moon, casting its rays deep into my soul. May the angels sing her praises far louder than I ever could. May the Lord grant her a place in paradise, one as beautiful as she was in this world.

    The sound of the Adhan echoed through the stillness, pulling me from the weight of my memories.

    I''ve grown used to waking alone, though my mind remains foggy and unclear as I rise before the dawn. When I stand before the mirror, I see not just my reflection, but us¡ªour love, our life¡ªstaring back at me. When the heavens called her, she ascended like an angel, seeking the King of Kings. And here I remain, fulfilling my duties as a husband, a man, a servant, and a believer. I refuse to lose sight of her; I cannot let myself stray. "Live for me," she had once whispered. Not everyone is granted a second chance, not everyone has the blinds lifted from their heart to see the truth. "I can''t change your heart, Aubrey. Only the Lord can guide it." Each word she spoke cut through me like a blade. Though she has slipped away, and I chase her shadow in vain, she left a light within me, one so brilliant that it could never be extinguished.

    I keep her love close to me¡ªher memories, her scent, her toothbrush, her clothes, her shoes. They make me feel her presence. I long for the fragrance she left behind in the hallways and the objects she touched. We took each other for granted until life''s upheavals forced us to recognize otherwise. Though we dreamed of summers, autumns, and springs, we only spent winter together. The day she left, I wasn''t even cold; instead, I was consumed by the heat of my loss.

    It was 5:40 in the morning. The world was still asleep, save for the worshippers. I would knock on the door of Allah five times a day, and each time, He would answer. When everyone else shut their doors in my face, I found freedom and solace in Islam¡ªit was the only door left open to me. It wasn''t my eyes that had been blind, but my heart. Ayah lifted the blinds, and the Lord liberated my heart by removing the stones buried deep within it. Regardless of one''s beliefs¡ªatheist, Hindu, Buddhist, Christian¡ªthe heart should be filled with love, not hatred. Hatred kills humanity, and where hatred resides, hope perishes.

    I made my wudu, the cleansing ritual before prayer, and placed my prayer mat to face the Kaaba. In Islam, no matter who you are¡ªrich or poor, black or white, with different ethics or upbringings¡ªGod sees us all equally. When Ayah gifted me Islam, I could give her nothing in return.

    After finishing my prayer, I watched the sun slowly rise, its warm light falling on the frosted rivers, snow-covered fields, and towering structures that dotted the landscape. The light reached into every corner, leaving no shadow untouched. Even in the places where the sun had not yet arrived, it shifted from east to west, treating everything beneath it with equality. Finally, the warmth of the sun reached me, and the sky lit up, as though someone had descended from the heavens, or perhaps as if God was smiling upon the earth.

    Ayah was declared dead on December 3, 2003, at 8:00 pm. Elsewhere, a small caf¨¦ lost one of its best staff members; an old greengrocer couldn''t help but recall the girl who used to visit him with boundless energy on her way to work; the animals she used to feed now wandered, missing the scent of the woman who had cared for them; and the florist waited with a bouquet that would never be picked up. A father condemned himself; a sister lost her closest friend; and a brother regretted their last argument.The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

    Today marked Ayah''s seventh death anniversary.

    I saw paradise in her eyes.

    It was time to prepare for my visit to her grave. I couldn''t help but think about the mysterious visitor my father mentioned¡ªsomeone who would meet me later that morning. My father hadn''t given me any more information about this person, only that I should be ready. I opened my closet and saw a set of white clothes, the "Panjabi" that Ayah had gifted me on my birthday. I wore them every Friday for Jummah prayers at the mosque.

    Mrs. Flores, my housekeeper of twelve years, was already preparing breakfast in the kitchen. She had been with my family since my mother''s time, taking care of me and Alex when my mother was busy. She had known Ayah too, and was present when Alex passed away. Mrs. Flores was like a second mother to us after our mother left. We called her "Kennedy." I sometimes wonder if things might have been different if she had been there the day of the tragedy. Back then, she was in her thirties, pregnant with her first child, and had worked for us for only a few years. Yet her loyalty and skill had kept her with us all this time. When I told her about Ayah''s death, she couldn''t believe me. She thought it was the worst joke I had ever played.

    Kennedy peered at me through her glasses as she set the plate down. "Aubrey, eat while it''s still warm," she said softly.

    I sat at the white marble dining table, a vase of fresh roses in the centre. The table was meant for a family of five, with chairs made of polished timber and cushioned in black fabric. The morning sunlight streamed through the windows, casting a warm glow across the room. It was a scene straight out of the life we had imagined together, the family we dreamed of. The only thing missing was Ayah and the children we had planned.

    "If we have a boy, we''ll name him Zair, and if it''s a girl, she''ll be Aiza," Ayah had once told me, smiling as she intertwined her fingers with mine. Her head rested in my lap as I gently brushed the hair away from her hazel eyes and kissed her forehead. "Whatever my queen desires," I had replied.

    As I ate my breakfast¡ªpancake tacos filled with scrambled eggs¡ªI asked Kennedy why she had come so early. I had asked her to come at 10 am. Tears welled up in her eyes as she answered, "I wasn''t there when she left, but I can at least make you breakfast so that you can deliver a message to her from me." Every year, on Ayah''s anniversary, Kennedy writes a note to her and asks me to read it at her grave. She never visits Ayah''s grave herself, though. When I asked her why, she confessed that she couldn''t. The mere sight of Ayah''s name on the stone would leave her speechless, her heart aching too much to bear. Her tears would fall, but her voice wouldn''t.

    What did Ayah do to deserve such devotion?

    Kennedy''s life had been torn apart when her husband left, taking all her savings. Her family, shamed by the scandal, abandoned her, claiming she was cursed. But Ayah refused to let Kennedy be humiliated. She found her a good man, a widower with a young son, and organized their wedding. She invited all those who had shamed Kennedy, making sure they knew they were wrong.

    "Smile," Ayah had said, "it''s the best revenge against those who try to break you."

    Ayah didn''t stop there. She tracked down the man who had stolen Kennedy''s money. By the time she found him, half the money was gone, but Ayah managed to recover the rest and return it to Kennedy. That act of kindness gave Kennedy a new start and a family. Ayah had given her dignity and love back to her.

    As I finished breakfast, I pocketed Kennedy''s note and headed for the door. Her final words echoed in my mind. "Ardel, never make a woman cry. Never." Ayah had told me this as we watched Mrs Flores walk down the aisle. "In Islam," she said, "if a man is responsible for a woman''s tears, the angels curse him with every step he takes."

    Even the key to paradise is held by a woman.

    At the cemetery, I parked my car and picked up the bouquet of irises beside me. I let the present moment wash over me while getting lost in memories of the past, uncertain of what the future might tempt me with.

    My heart began to race as I approached her grave. I felt blessed to have loved her, to have called her my wife. When I met her, my heart took over, and for the first time in my life, my mind failed to make sense of the whirlwind inside me. After all, who can ever truly understand the heart?

    She lay beneath the earth now, in peace.

    "Until we meet again, my love," I whispered, as the warmth of the sun enveloped me.

 Chapter - 5

    Up in the Clouds

    The cemetery was wrapped in a hush, broken only by the soft rustle of leaves. I knelt by Ayah''s gravestone, clutching a bouquet of irises, each one a symbol of my grief and longing. The early morning light cast a gentle glow over her resting place, but my heart was heavy, burdened by the weight of loss.

    "Ayah," I whispered into the quiet, my voice barely audible. "I''ve been missing you a lot."

    My tears fell unchecked, dampening the grass beneath me. I buried my face in my hands, trying to muffle the sound of my sobs. The distant hum of traffic and the occasional murmur of other visitors seemed to drift away, leaving me in a cocoon of sorrow. The world felt unbearably distant.

    The sharp buzz of my phone jolted me from my reverie. I fumbled for it, feeling the rough edges of my emotions. It was already nine in the morning. With a final, lingering look at her tombstone, I slowly rose, my movements heavy with reluctance.

    As I drove away from the cemetery, my mind was a whirlwind of frustration and anticipation. Today, of all days, a visitor was due to arrive¡ªsomeone I knew nothing about. Kennedy, my assistant, was unavailable, leaving me to juggle my responsibilities alone. The thought of someone waiting outside my apartment only deepened my unease.

    I spotted a bakery and, in my hurry, pulled into the lot with a jolt. The warm, inviting aroma of pastries hit me as I entered, but I was too preoccupied to fully appreciate it. The bakery was a whirlwind of activity: the hiss of the espresso machine, the clatter of dishes, and the soft murmur of conversation filled the space. I barely registered the flash of cameras until they surrounded me.

    The bakery owner, a cheerful woman with a wide smile, proudly held up a cake. "My bakery will become just as renowned as the Ardels!" she proclaimed, her voice filled with pride.

    I managed a strained smile, feeling the weight of the situation. "Yes, ma''am. If you don''t mind, I''d like to take the cake now."

    But she was relentless. "Don''t leave yet, Mr. Ardel. We need a few more shots for the newspaper and our promotion."

    The cameras flashed in rapid succession, each burst of light heightening my anxiety. I glanced at my phone¡ªmy father was calling. I answered, my frustration palpable.The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

    "What''s happening?" he demanded, his voice a mix of irritation and concern.

    "I''m stuck in a bakery," I said, trying to keep my tone calm despite the mounting stress. "I forgot my mask, and now I''m surrounded by cameras."

    My father''s response was immediate and decisive. "Why didn''t you tell me sooner? I''m sending help right away."

    A wave of relief washed over me at his words. The strained relationship with my father, which had begun to mend after Ayah''s passing, was a source of comfort in this moment of chaos.

    I remembered a rare dinner from my childhood¡ªa fleeting moment of connection with my father that I now looked back on with mixed emotions.

    As I waited for his help, Ayah''s words echoed in my mind: "There are no farewells in this world, Aubrey, not between you and me. We shall meet again in paradise."

    "Stay with me," I pleaded, my voice cracking. "Don''t talk about leaving."

    Our fates were so tightly bound, that it felt as if her departure was a cruel twist of destiny, meant to unravel the life we had woven together. The very thought that she had left instead of me was unbearable.

    "Why not?" she asked softly, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. "What would you do if I died before you?"

    My heart ached at the thought. "My heart would shatter into pieces," I said, my voice heavy with emotion. "It would refuse to beat, leaving me numb. My blood would turn cold, and I''d feel nothing but an emptiness so profound it would swallow me whole. My shadow would stand alone under the sun, and my soul would drift aimlessly under the moon, lost without you. My eyes would see nothing but the void where you once were, and my arms would be forever empty without your warmth."

    She smiled a bittersweet expression that made my heart ache even more. "Then I can''t afford to die first, can I?"

    "Never," I said firmly, my voice trembling with conviction.

    Our love, so fierce and consuming, seemed to be the very force that led to our downfall. After she was gone, I spent countless hours searching for reasons, for some explanation to soothe my restless mind and stave off the guilt that gnawed at me. That night, as I lay awake, my body felt the same searing pain I had felt when Alex died, a torment that seemed to replay itself as if in some dark, tragic film.

    The sensation was as if someone was orchestrating a macabre scene with an entirely different cast, yet the pain and the loss were achingly familiar. It was as though the universe was taunting me with the echoes of what could have been, replaying the agony of losing someone so irreplaceable.

    Her voice was a soothing balm against the harshness of reality. I closed my eyes, feeling a semblance of her presence.

    The bakery door swung open, and two bodyguards stepped inside. One of the guard''s faces, etched with concern, softened when he saw me. "Let''s get out of here," he said, his voice a grounding force.

    I nodded, grateful for his support. As we exited the bakery, the cool morning air hit my face, a refreshing contrast to the claustrophobic atmosphere inside. I felt a renewed sense of hope, bolstered by the love I had for Ayah and the steadfast support of my father.

 Chapter - 6

    What does your heart hide

    I was surprised to find no strangers¡ªor guests¡ªwaiting at my apartment door. My father''s bodyguards stood to the side, clearing the path as I made my way home. With the cake box in one hand, I fumbled for my keys with the other, confusion creeping in. Why had my father told me to expect visitors when there were none? He was not one to joke, always a man of his word.

    The key clicked, and as I opened the door, a familiar figure greeted me, comfortably seated on the sofa, watching the news.

    "Kais?" I called out, setting the cake on the kitchen counter. He turned towards me with that unmistakable grin.

    He wasn''t supposed to be here. "Weren''t you supposed to be interviewing someone abroad?" I asked, pulling the cake from the box and placing it on the dining table. His eyes brightened at the sight of the cake, and he sprang up to inspect it.

    "I am interviewing someone," he replied, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Oh, and I used the spare key that you keep under the rug."

    Kais was a man who possessed strikingly sharp features: a chiselled jawline, high cheekbones, and piercing eyes that seemed to dance with a hint of mischief. His well-defined physique speaks of regular workouts and disciplined training, with a muscular build that is both impressive and agile. His movements are confident and smooth, often punctuated by a knowing smirk or a playful glint in his eye, suggesting a personality that enjoys a good-natured prank or lighthearted jest. His overall appearance combines an air of both sophistication and youthful exuberance.

    His dark brown hair is thick and tousled, with a natural wave that adds to his effortlessly charming look. It''s neatly styled, but with a relaxed, slightly tousled quality that enhances his mischievous demeanour. The rich hue catches the light subtly, giving his hair a deep, glossy sheen that frames his face perfectly.

    I tilted my head, waiting for an explanation. But instead of elaborating, he waved me off. "Oh, come on, Aubrey. Let me try the cake first." Just as he reached for a slice, I slapped his hand away.

    "Not a chance. I''m expecting someone," I said, and he only smiled wider.

    "What if I''m the guest?" He chuckled, slapping me on the back.

    I paused, realization dawning on me. "You... you''re the guest?"

    He nodded as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

    "You''re here to interview me?" I asked, bewildered.

    Another nod. It hit me then¡ªmy father had arranged for my wife''s brother to interview me about her. The weight of it settled in, and if looks could kill, Idrees would have dropped right there. But he just sat across from me, calmly eating his fifth slice of cake, completely unfazed by the daggers I was shooting his way.

    I tapped my fingers on the arm of the sofa, waiting for him to finish. "How do you stay in shape when you eat so much?"

    "Are you calling me fat?" he asked, feigning offence.

    I shrugged. "You said it, not me." His mock indignation vanished, replaced by a smirk. After wiping his hands and adjusting his clothes, he set up a camera in the living room and positioned a pen and paper on the coffee table.This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

    Between bites of cake, Kais explained that the interview could help boost my career, spreading Ayah''s story across the world. He worked for a major corporation, one that focused on political and entertainment news with a massive audience. He had a point¡ªmy painting had yet to gain much recognition, and the exposure could be invaluable. But I knew there was more to it. For him, this was personal. He wanted to hear the story of Ayah and me, how we fell in love, how we lost her.

    "I get why you''re passionate about this," I said, "but you''re not interviewing me right now, are you?"

    He grinned, leaning back. "I leave in one week, Aubrey. You''ve got a lot to say, so let''s not waste time."

    I sighed, knowing full well how relentless the Ferdous family could be. "That''s a short trip."

    He shrugged. "I know. But we can''t avoid this, can we? Let''s start. Skip any questions you''re not comfortable answering."

    I couldn''t help but laugh at his attempt to make it sound casual. But beneath the surface, I felt a twinge of anxiety. This wasn''t just any interview. This was about her. About us. And that was a wound that hadn''t healed.

    Kais shuffled through his papers, glancing at the questions scribbled across them. "These are stupid," he muttered, tossing them aside.

    I picked them up and skimmed through. The questions were typical, the same ones I''d been asked before. Kais was unimpressed. He started pacing, growing more frustrated by the minute.

    "I can''t work with this," he huffed. I was too tired to argue, so I got up and headed towards my bedroom.

    "Call me when you''re ready," I said, feeling the weight of the day settle into my bones.

    The quiet of my bedroom wrapped around me as I shut the door behind me, a welcome reprieve from the chaos of the outside world. Here, in this stillness, I could let my guard down. I could breathe.

    I stood in front of my old study desk, the lamp dimly flickering to life. The desk had once been my sanctuary, a place where I composed rhythms, not just of music but of life, love, and death. Each note I wrote seemed to carry the weight of witnessing someone slip away, leaving behind an ache that time could not erase. I could still see Alex''s smile, and feel the sting of the tears in his eyes the day I lost him.

    There were so many unanswered questions. Why? That was the one that haunted me the most. Why had he done it? What had happened to the lively, vibrant person I knew? Had the idea of suicide always lingered in his mind, or had someone else planted that seed? If only he had shared his pain... or if only I had asked. Alex, how does your soul feel? The words never came. Instead, Michael and I had told him to tough it out, that things would get better if he just stayed strong. We never permitted him to be weak, to be human.

    Someone once told me that in chasing happiness, we inevitably stumble into sadness. Life isn''t meant to be purely sweet or bitter; it''s a balance. And misery, our constant companion, reminds us to reflect on the things we might otherwise ignore. Without that reflection, we lose ourselves. Joy and sorrow are two sides of the same coin, and sometimes, they come hand in hand.

    In our pursuit of happiness, we forget about death¡ªthe only certainty in life. Everything else¡ªwealth, fame, friends¡ªis fleeting. So why do we run after them? Why do we forget to be grateful for even the smallest blessings, like the ability to think, to cry, to scream? We treat sadness like an enemy and happiness like a friend, but both are needed. One cannot exist without the other.

    If only I had shared these thoughts with Alex. Perhaps things would have been different. But we don''t own our souls, and neither you nor I have the right to destroy them.

    The door swung open, and Kais barged in, his face beaming. "I''ve got it!" he announced, breaking my train of thought.

    I rolled my eyes. "Ever heard of knocking?"

    He ignored me, too excited to care. "I know what to ask. I''m going to ask you about the truth of your heart."

    His pride was almost comical, but I couldn''t help but feel intrigued. I hadn''t asked myself about the state of my heart in seven years. I''d been too afraid of what the answer might be¡ªregret, sorrow, or something I couldn''t yet face.

    "The truth of my heart," I murmured as if saying it aloud would somehow unlock the answer.

    Kais stood tall, looking every bit the determined interviewer. The Ferdous family loved their praise, but this question... this one was different. It struck deep.

    And maybe, just maybe, I was ready to face it.

 Chapter - 7

    Snowflake

    Despite my best efforts to stay afloat, I found myself drowning in an ocean of thoughts. It''s something I both detest and love¡ªthis pulls into the depths of my mind. I''ve tried everything to make the pain go away, but now it''s woven itself into every fibre of my being. I need to accept that the story of you and me is unfinished, yet each dawn, I continue to evade the truth. This marked the beginning of a new chapter in a story that had ended seven years ago. A chapter I never wished to revisit, but it seemed inevitable.

    When I hated myself the most, she was the one who loved me.

    "Ayah, how can you love me when I don''t even love myself?" I asked her once.

    She smirked, her eyes glowing with mischief. "So you can keep loving me," she replied. My last memory of that moment is our shared laughter echoing through the room, warm and light, filling the space with a fleeting sense of peace.

    Some miracles change your life, sent by God as blessings. But they''re ephemeral. Those favoured by the Lord are called back far too soon, so they may bask in the eternal beauty of heaven.

    "Ayah," I whispered her name, "she was the sweet thirst I could never quench." I had never seen anything as beautiful as she was. Amid my chaos, she was the breath of serenity. Her voice, like honey, was what my ears yearned for. Her scent was what I craved, the perfume that lingered long after she left. She was my moonlight in the dark and my daylight in the gloom. She nourished my soul like rain quenches parched earth. Ayah was nothing short of an angel¡ªfull of grace, unwavering in her beliefs, radiating love wherever she went.

    She was my addiction, my patience, my wisdom, and my trust. She was the hope that lit the darkness, a beacon in an otherwise starless sky. To put it simply, Ayah Ferdous was my true love, the one who held my heart even now.

    It all began seven years ago in my office, the scene a stark contrast to the frosty calm outside. My father, Michael, and I were engaged in a heated argument, our voices reverberating off the bare walls of the sterile room. The tension between us was palpable, a storm of conflicting wills with one person desperately trying to calm the tempest. The argument had ignited just before an important violin competition, a stepping stone that promised to be a gateway to a prestigious agency¡ªa future that could propel me to greatness. But I had no intention of participating.

    "I''m happy with where I am. I don''t want to compete," I tried to reason with him, my voice edged with frustration.

    My father''s response was thunderous, his authority unyielding. "It''s not just about you, Aubrey! Think about the staff, about Michael, and the hard work they''ve all invested. They want to see you succeed."

    "And why should I care what they want?" I retorted, my patience fraying.

    I had already abandoned my passion for painting and was trudging down a path that felt alien to me. I resented the expectations, especially since my father had never bothered to ask what I wanted. I wished he had once said, "Son, what do you want to be?" or even, "Follow your instincts, even if they lead you into uncertainty. I''ll be here for you, no matter what."This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

    But he hadn''t.

    The mention of my deceased brother Alex cut through the argument like a knife. "Alex would be disappointed in you," my father said, his words casual, almost indifferent.

    That was the breaking point. My anger erupted with a cold intensity. Michael''s face turned ashen, clearly shocked by the callousness. It was astonishing that my father, who had shown no grief at Alex''s funeral or questioned his tragic end, would now invoke his memory.

    "You have no right to bring up Alex!" I spat, my voice dripping with venom. "He''s not your son anymore. Don''t you dare utter his name with that disgusting mouth of yours."

    Without another word, I threw on my coat and stormed out of the office. The city greeted me with its snow-covered streets and frigid air. I inhaled deeply, hoping the cold would soothe my frayed nerves. My mind was a whirlwind of questions: Was this life I was leading worth it? What was I fighting for? Why did I feel so alone despite being surrounded by people?

    "I wish it was me who had died, Alex," I murmured under my breath, the weight of those words pressing heavily on my chest.

    As I wandered aimlessly through the city, I began to notice the simple joys around me. The florist, meticulously arranging vibrant blooms with a smile despite his modest earnings. Children gleefully savoring a single piece of candy. Friends, immersed in carefree conversation. The warm, inviting aroma of a bakery, with a line of eager patrons awaiting their turn. Everything seemed so uncomplicated, filled with an intrinsic joy.

    And then I saw her. Seated alone on a bench in the middle of the snow-blanketed field was a girl. Her orange beanie stood out against the white, and her brown hair peeked out, framing her face. She was intently focused on her sketchbook, her hazel eyes tracking the pencil''s movement with rapt concentration. Her sharp, elegant nose and glasses perched precariously on her face gave her an air of regal determination.

    Drawn by curiosity, I approached her. As I neared, I saw her drawing¡ªa depiction that I couldn''t quite place.

    "What are you drawing?" I asked, unable to suppress my curiosity. She jumped slightly, clutching her chest in surprise. Instantly, I regretted startling her.

    "Oh Lord, don''t sneak up on people like that!" she gasped, catching her breath. After a moment, she looked up at me, her expression shifting to a mix of curiosity and vulnerability. "You want to know?"

    I nodded, intrigued.

    Her ears, reddened by the cold, revealed her nervousness. "Well, it''s not that good, but it''s supposed to be a snowflake," she said, her voice bubbling with enthusiasm. Her explanation was so earnest that I struggled to find any resemblance to an actual snowflake in her drawing.

    "Have you ever seen a snowflake before?" I asked, incredulous.

    "No," she replied, a hint of longing in her voice. I was astounded. How had she lived in New York and never seen a snowflake?

    Offering to help, I gestured to her sketchbook. "Let me show you what a snowflake looks like." I took a pencil and began sketching, my hands moving with practiced ease.

    She watched me intently, her gaze a blend of skepticism and wonder. When I handed her back the sketchbook, her eyes widened, and her face lit up with a delight that was almost childlike.

    "It''s beautiful!" she exclaimed, her voice imbued with a newfound excitement. "I''ve never seen anyone draw a snowflake so perfectly."

    She glanced at her watch, and panic flashed across her face. "Oh no! My break''s over. I need to get back to work." Hastily, she packed up her things but not before giving me a smile that radiated warmth, a stark contrast to the winter chill.

    "You should be a painter," she said, her eyes sparkling with sincerity. "Those hands of yours are gifted."

    I stood there, watching her rush back into the caf¨¦, completely absorbed in the moment. Just as she disappeared inside, I felt a hand on my shoulder. Turning, I saw Michael, his expression etched with concern.

    "What''s wrong?" he asked, his voice tinged with worry.

    At that moment, amidst the bustle of the city and the lingering warmth of the girl''s smile, I felt a flicker of something I hadn''t felt in a long time¡ªhope.

 Chapter - 8

    Setting Sun

    Michael stared at me with that familiar, stern expression as the waiter placed our orders on the table. I let out a long, slow sigh, feeling the tension between us stretch like a taut wire. Michael stayed silent, his gaze fixed on me, waiting patiently for the storm brewing inside me to settle. He took a sip of his caramel latte, the scent of sugar and espresso mingling in the air between us, and then finally broke the silence.

    "Who was the girl?" he asked, his voice steady but with a trace of curiosity.

    I didn''t need to ask who he meant. "Just a random girl," I replied, my tone casual, though I knew that wouldn''t fly with him.

    "A random girl?" Michael echoed, his disbelief obvious, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Can I ask her name, then?"

    He knew I didn''t talk to *random girls*. Not with how guarded I usually was. My face betrayed nothing, but inside, I wrestled with the fact that neither of us had exchanged names. I hadn''t asked. All I could remember were her eyes, her smile, and that delicate sketch of a snowflake she left behind.

    "Snowflake," I muttered, mostly to myself.

    "Her name is Snowflake?" Michael raised an eyebrow, scepticism clear in his tone.

    I wasn''t in the mood to explain. Nodding curtly, I watched as his frown deepened. He didn''t believe me. Not that it mattered. What did matter was his decision about the competition.

    "So," I said, steering the conversation to what I actually cared about, "what''s your decision? Am I in?"

    I took a sip of my black coffee, its bitterness coating my tongue, reminding me of my own life. Michael ran a hand through his silver hair, sighing as if the weight of the decision pressed down on him.

    The man stands at an impressive 6.5 feet tall, his stature accentuated by a well-defined, muscular build that speaks of both strength and elegance. His silver hair, a striking feature, falls in a sleek, controlled manner, its gleaming strands adding a touch of sophistication. His piercing blue eyes are deep and intense, contrasting vividly with his hair and commanding attention with their clarity and depth. His facial structure is sharply defined, with a strong jawline and prominent cheekbones that enhance his commanding presence and refined appearance.

    I could see the answer on his face before he even spoke. Damn it.

    "Aubrey," he began, his voice measured, "I think it''s best if you participate."

    "Why is that?" I forced myself to stay calm, though anger simmered beneath the surface, slipping into my words. I took another sip, hoping the coffee would help me swallow my frustration.

    "Why should I compete, Michael? You know what happens if I do. I''ll never escape the music industry. I''ll never get away from my father."Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

    Michael glanced around the caf¨¦, checking if anyone was within earshot. Leaning in slightly, his voice dropped to a near whisper. "Aubrey, seeing you with a paintbrush again¡ªit''s like watching a dream. A dream that''ll never come true."

    His words hit me like a punch in the gut. I wanted to deny it, to reject the truth he was offering, but deep down, I knew. Painting was my dream, but it was a dream buried under layers of reality I couldn''t peel away.

    "You should be a painter," suddenly the mysterious girl''s voice echoed inside my head. "Your hands... they''re gifted."

    I looked down at my trembling hands, my voice quieter now. "Do you really think my hands are gifted, Michael?"

    His eyes widened, concern flashing across his face. "Aubrey, I didn''t mean it like that. I never doubted your talent, not once. I''m sorry if that''s how it came across."

    "Then why are you pushing me to compete?" I asked, my frustration creeping back in.

    Michael sighed, his fingers drumming against the table. "Because, Aubrey, chasing a dream you can''t reach... it leads to disappointment. And I don''t want that for you."

    I let out a bitter laugh. "Do you think I''m like Alex?"

    His expression hardened, and I noticed his grip tighten around the coffee cup. "No," he said firmly. "You''re nothing like Alex."

    A tense silence fell between us before Michael stood up abruptly, signalling the end of the conversation. "Let''s go," he said, his voice clipped.

    He motioned to the waitress, and when she brought the bill, he paid without hesitation. By the time he reached the caf¨¦ door, he was holding it open, gesturing for me to walk ahead. His broad frame blocked the light streaming in from outside, casting a shadow over the entrance.

    We drove in silence, the hum of the car and the distant sound of jazz on the radio filling the void. The sky outside shifted from pale blue to the soft hues of dusk, the setting sun casting a golden glow across the water. I couldn''t tear my eyes away from the view¡ªthe way the sun dipped below the horizon, the light melting into the ocean. It was beautiful, heartbreakingly so, and for a moment, I almost believed there was a way out of this life.

    Michael''s frequent glances at me through the rearview mirror didn''t go unnoticed, but I didn''t say anything. I just watched the sky turn from gold to purple as we sped along the coast, feeling a fleeting sense of peace.

    This car held so many memories. It was the same one Alex and I used to ride in together, back when life was simpler¡ªbefore everything fell apart. I remembered how we''d stride out of it, acting like we owned the world. Michael was always there, ready with a laugh and the latest sports news, his backward embrace as familiar as the wind at the beach.

    The three of us used to sneak off to the shore, convincing the chauffeur to take us there without telling our parents. We''d sit on the sand, our feet buried in the cool grains, watching the waves roll in. Those evenings felt like freedom, the sound of the ocean blending with our laughter, the world outside our secret sanctuary far away.

    But nothing lasts forever. Eventually, our parents found out, and the bubble burst.

    I remembered one day vividly¡ªsitting by the fountain in our garden, tears streaming down my face. Alex found me there. Even at thirteen, he was more mature than either Michael or me. His heart was kind, always steady. He knelt beside me, concern written all over his face.

    "What''s wrong, Aubrey?" he asked gently, wiping my tears away. "Why are you crying?"

    I collapsed into his arms, sobbing. "Dad fired Uncle Gren," I managed between gasps.

    Alex''s expression softened as he held me close, stroking my hair. "Don''t worry, little brother," he whispered. "I''ll talk to Dad."

    I looked up at him, my eyes filled with hope. "Do you think he''ll listen?"

    "Even if he doesn''t," Alex smiled, "Mom will."

    We believed in our parents'' love back then. We believed in a lot of things. Until everything came crashing down the day Mom handed Dad the divorce papers. That was the beginning of the end¡ªthe unravelling of the family and the path that led to Alex''s death.

 Chapter - 9

    Fire on fire

    The journey back was a silent one, but my mind was anything but quiet. It was filled with the echoes of the past, memories that clawed their way out from the dark recesses of my mind. I could see the flames again, flickering and dancing in my mind''s eye, and hear Alex''s final, heart-wrenching cries. I often wondered if he had foreseen the ramifications for me, Michael, and our father. Maybe, if he had known what would become of us, he might have stayed. Yet, a deeper part of me felt that he had considered every possibility before making his irrevocable choice.

    The ache of longing for someone who is no longer there is a profound torment. It is a pain so raw, so relentless, that it consumes the soul. By the time we reached my father''s grand home, night had already draped its dark cloak over the world. It was surreal that this mansion, once a beacon of warmth and love, now felt like a mausoleum of cold, indifferent stone. The emptiness was palpable, a stark contrast to the vibrant life it once held.

    "You go on ahead, Michael. I''ll join you in a bit," I said, trying to steady my voice.

    "I''ll see your father first. We both need a break; it''s getting late," Michael replied, his voice laced with a weariness that matched my own.

    I nodded, turning away from him, and made my way to the one place that still felt like a part of me¡ªthe garden. As I walked, each step felt heavier, my breaths growing shallow. The garden was a sanctuary, enveloped in the rich, soothing scent of jasmine. Tall trees stood sentinel around it, their branches filtering the last of the evening light into dappled patterns on the ground. The garden was alive with an explosion of colors from a myriad of flowers¡ªblue, violet, crimson, yellow¡ªeach one a testament to the vibrant life it once nurtured. But it was the jasmine that held my heart.

    To my astonishment, the garden still sang with the melodious chirps of birds around the central fountain. I inhaled deeply, trying to absorb every ounce of the place''s essence. The damp, earthy aroma of the garden was a stark reminder of its former glory. It was once a place where laughter and secrets were shared, but now it felt hollow, missing the sounds of joy that had once filled its space.

    "It seems that despite moving out, Dad has kept up with the garden you loved, Mother," I murmured, the words barely escaping my lips.

    A wistful smile touched my face as the winter wind brushed gently against my skin, as though the memories of those who had become mere whispers in the wind were wrapping around me in a comforting embrace.

    This garden, once a source of solace for Alex, was now bereft of the laughter it once knew. It was here that I had witnessed a horror that left an indelible mark on my soul¡ªan event that stole away my chance to say a final goodbye to Alex.

    Alex had always cherished this garden, especially because it was our mother''s favorite. He found comfort in its serenity, but eventually, even this refuge could no longer soothe him. From this very garden, I had a clear view of Alex''s bedroom. I used to watch him read by his window, waving to him as he looked up and returned the gesture. But now, that room was shrouded in impenetrable darkness.

    One fateful day, his room was ablaze. The terror that gripped me was like ice seizing my veins. I could barely move, paralyzed by fear and uncertainty. Something inside urged me to run.

    "Fire! Alex''s room is on fire! Dad, please, someone help!"

    My screams ripped through the stillness of the night as I stumbled forward, tears blurring my vision, desperation clawing at my heart. Every beat of it felt like a death knell. Was Alex even in there? If he was, I silently begged him to be safe. This was a terror unlike anything I had ever known, a fear so profound it made my very bones ache. My hands trembled violently as I reached for the doorknob, fingers slipping against the cold metal. When I finally wrenched it open, a fleeting, cruel moment of relief washed over me¡ªbefore despair crushed it, leaving me gasping.

    Thick, choking smoke poured out in waves, curling through the air like a living thing. Each breath I took was agony, the acrid stench burning my throat and lungs. Through the dense haze, my eyes fixed on the sight I wished I could unsee¡ªAlex''s room, once grand and full of life, now a blazing inferno, the fire greedily devouring everything in its path.

    "Aubrey!"

    I spun toward the voice, panic tearing at my chest. "Alex! Please, you have to get out!" My voice cracked, strained with desperation, barely louder than a sob.

    By now, others had gathered around, their faces twisted with horror and disbelief, mirroring my own anguish. The air was thick not just with smoke but with the suffocating weight of hopelessness.This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    "No, Aubrey, it''s too late for me," Alex''s voice trembled, tears mingling with the soot on his face, his features ghostly pale against the backdrop of the flames.

    "What are you saying? No! Someone¡ªplease, do something!" My voice broke, raw and ragged, but there was nothing left in me but pleading. My body felt like it might collapse under the weight of my grief.

    "Water! Get water! Call the police! Someone inform Mr. Ardel immediately!" The headman''s frantic orders cut through the chaos, but the fire moved with a hunger that nothing could quench. It crept further, faster. The window was the only escape, the last, perilous hope¡ªbut Alex didn''t move.

    "Aubrey..." His voice was a fragile whisper beneath the roar of the flames. "I wanted to laugh, to cry, to see the sea and stay by your side. But my nights... my nights were filled with torment. I smiled through it all because I had to because I am Alex, but... tell me, is there no place for me to cry? No one ever saw me falling apart¡ªnot even you." His words pierced through me like shards of glass. "My heart is hollow now, filled with thoughts I can''t control. I''ve been losing myself, drowning in sleepless nights."

    "No, stop, please! You can''t say that!" I cried, but I knew, even then, that it was too late. The flames were already claiming him, and nothing could stop them.

    "Live, Aubrey... live for me." His final words, so soft, so full of sorrow, came with a bittersweet smile as if he had already accepted his fate. And then, with terrifying finality, the flames took him. They wrapped around him like an old, cruel friend, drawing him deeper into the fire''s embrace.

    "Hold the young master back!" Someone shouted, their voice barely registering over the roaring flames.

    "No! Let me go! Alex is still in there!" I screamed, fighting against the arms holding me back, my vision blurred with tears. The world was spinning, darkening, as my strength left me. The next thing I knew, the ground rushed up to meet me, and the heavy weight of unconsciousness descended.

    Through the fading light, my lips moved with one last, desperate whisper. "Alex... he''s waiting for me."

    "Young Master."

    The voice pulled me back to the present, interrupting the painful memories.

    "Uncle Gren," I murmured, my voice thick with nostalgia.

    The old man''s eyes widened, trembling as he took in the sight of me. "Is that really you, young master?" His voice quivered with emotion, and when he reached out, his hands were still as gentle as I remembered. He brushed a hand against my cheek as if confirming I was real. Tears welled up in his eyes. "How long has it been since I last saw you?"

    "Too long," I replied, swallowing the lump in my throat. "I''m sorry, Uncle Gren, for not visiting more often."

    Uncle Gren shook his head, his hand slowly falling away. "It''s not your fault, young master. This mansion..." His voice trailed off, and he glanced toward the large, ornate window that once overlooked the life Alex and I shared. "It became so silent after Alex died. After you left... Sometimes, I wondered if it was all just a dream."

    I followed his gaze toward the window, haunted by the memories it held. "I should''ve been here more. I should''ve¡ª"

    "No," Uncle Gren interrupted softly. "The weight you carried was heavier than anyone should bear alone. I always knew you needed to leave. But that doesn''t mean it wasn''t hard. For any of us."

    His words stirred a mixture of guilt and relief in me. The birds sang softly in the background, their melodies weaving through the still air, but the silence between us felt louder.

    "I know it was hard for you, Uncle Gren," I said, trying to keep my voice steady, though a crack betrayed the sadness beneath. I couldn''t help but notice how much older he looked¡ªthe once-sharp, dapper figure of my youth was now marked by time. His once-black hair had thinned and gone silver, and the lines of age etched deep into his face told stories of the years that had passed.

    "Not harder than for you, master," he said with a small, wistful smile, though his eyes carried the weight of those years, the weight of Alex''s death, and everything that had followed.

    "How are you now?" I asked, though I could already see the answer in the way he stood, the way his shoulders slumped ever so slightly.

    "Taking things one day at a time. The occasional trip to the market keeps me going. And you, master?"

    I turned my gaze toward the window, my heart tightening. "Still fighting," I said, my voice quieter. "Still trying to reconcile with the past."

    His expression softened, as if he understood the endless battle I was waging. He looked toward the window as well, the very window where I''d seen the flames the night of the fire¡ªthe night I lost Alex. It was only six feet away, but in my mind, that distance now felt like an eternity. The weight of that night pressed down on me as heavily as it had all those years ago.

    "You''re still holding on," Uncle Gren said, almost reading my thoughts. His voice was gentle, but there was an unspoken question in it¡ª*when will you let go?*

    "I have to," I replied, my voice firm, though inside, I wasn''t sure if I was talking to him or myself. "I have to figure out what really happened."

    He nodded, but I could see the sadness in his eyes hadn''t lifted. "I hope you find the answers you''re looking for, young master," he said, though his tone held a note of resignation.

    I reached out, clasping his hand for a moment. "Thank you, Uncle Gren," I said, squeezing it gently before letting go. "For everything."

    "You''ve always had my loyalty, master," he replied with a small, sad smile. "You always will."

    With that, I turned toward the guest hall, the looming shadow of the mansion feeling more oppressive with every step. The weight of my memories, of Alex, of everything I hadn''t confronted still hung over me. As I approached the hall, I noticed two men waiting for me by the doorway. Their presence was a reminder of the life I could never escape¡ªthe grip my father still held over me.

    I glanced back one last time at Uncle Gren, who stood by the garden, watching me with that same look of sadness. He had spent years carrying the burden of this family, just as I had. But no one could free me from it¡ªnot him, not anyone. The haunting memories of this mansion, of Alex, of the truth I sought, were mine to face alone.

 Chapter - 10

    Follow her trace

    The chandelier hung like a crown above the living room, its sheer size and splendour overwhelming the senses. It was at least six feet in length, a magnificent spiral of glittering crystals that cascaded in layers, capturing and reflecting every sliver of light. It bathed the room in an ethereal glow, casting a thousand shimmering patterns on the walls. The living room, fit for royalty, was a stage for wealth and influence. Five Tuxedo couches and five elegant Cabrioles were arranged with meticulous precision, their arms and legs gilded in gold, gleaming beneath the soft illumination. The emerald-green upholstery exuded luxury, a rich, velvety green that seemed to glow in contrast to the opulence around it. Eighteen crimson pillows, each adorned with a diamond fragment in its centre, punctuated the room''s grandeur.

    Beneath the chandelier, a marble table stood like an altar, displaying a rare, priceless vase. It was estimated to be worth a million dollars¡ªa piece that was not merely a decoration but a statement. The vase was revered, its royal blue surface gleaming even in the dim light, with golden tracings winding delicately across its body. Tiny, intricate flower motifs protruded from its surface, giving it an almost lifelike presence. It stood proudly, cradling a bouquet of red flowers, which the staff, in this long-abandoned estate, meticulously replaced each day. Despite everything my father had abandoned, he had not forgotten this one ritual.

    "Arthur, I just don''t understand you sometimes. Why buy such an extravagant vase?" My mother''s voice was calm but laced with exasperation as her fingers brushed against the vase''s smooth surface.

    Without turning away from the window where he stood, cigarette in hand and newspaper crinkled under his arm, my father responded, "Well, my love, it seems to have enchanted you."

    She sighed, glancing at him briefly before giving her command. "It''s not something I dislike, no. Never mind. Walter! Fresh red flowers for the vase, and don''t forget to change them every day."

    The air in the room grew heavier as memories stirred, memories that were never truly forgotten. Every beautiful moment was bound to something painful, hidden deep within. And no matter how hard the heart tries to resist, the mind recalls them so vividly it feels like the past is merging with the present.

    "Arthur..." My mother''s voice trembled as she laid the divorce papers before him, her hands shaking. "Please, answer just this one question."

    My father''s eyes remained closed, his breath slow and deliberate as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. He didn''t look at her. He didn''t meet her tearful gaze, not once. All he did was nod as if acknowledging her pain without the strength to address it.

    "When did you stop loving me?"

    I watched in silence, unable to move. My mother''s sobs filled the room, and I could see the life draining from her as she waited for an answer that never came. My father, stoic and unyielding, remained silent. If only he had spoken¡ªif only he had opened his eyes and offered her some glimmer of regret¡ªI wouldn''t have lost my mother. I wouldn''t have lost Alex. And maybe, I wouldn''t have lost myself.

    It''s astounding how much emotion can be tied to a single room. The living room, with all its splendour, was a reflection of my father''s success¡ªhis induction into the Hall of Fame, his immeasurable wealth, and his influence. Yet, despite all this, he had lost the one thing that truly mattered: his family. He knew there was no one left to call his own. Still, he clung to me, hoping to accomplish for me what he had failed to do for Alex.The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    I stood frozen before the marble table, my eyes locked on the vase, the weight of everything crashing down on me. I barely noticed Michael approaching until he placed a hand on my shoulder, startling me. He handed me a set of documents.

    "These are the rules and conditions for the violin competition. Read them carefully and sign within three days," he instructed, his voice firm.

    I scoffed, my eyes narrowing at the absurdity. "Three days? Three days to watch my future crumble, to sit back while everything I''ve worked for falls apart?"

    My father, still by the window, lit one of his expensive cigars, the smoke curling lazily around him. He didn''t even look at me as he spoke. "Aubrey, remember: fame, wealth, and power are the defining traits of an Ardel. Happiness doesn''t exist in our lives. It never has." His gaze drifted back to the vase as if it embodied the emptiness of his words.

    I clenched my fists, anger boiling in my chest. He was the reason for all of this. How dare he preach about the absence of happiness? How dare he act like he understood? Slowly, I approached him, my tall, muscular frame towering over his. "Tell me, Father," I whispered, my voice dripping with venom, "did losing your wife knock any sense into that worthless brain of yours?"

    For the first time, his expression faltered. Seeing the humiliation in his eyes brought me a twisted sense of satisfaction. "You can either agree with what I do," I continued, leaning closer, "or wait until I have you in the palm of my hand. And I swear, when that time comes, I''ll make your life so miserable that you''ll wish I had never been born. I''ll strip you of everything you hold dear¡ªyour fame, your fortune¡ªuntil you crawl back to me, begging for forgiveness."

    I leaned in, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "How can you hope to control me, Father, when you couldn''t even keep a woman?"

    The crack of his hand against my face rang through the room. The force of it stunned me, and for a moment, I just stood there, my cheek stinging, my heart pounding. "You will not tear down the empire I built!" he roared, his voice filled with fury.

    A wild, exhilarating spark ignited within me at his outburst. My eyes gleamed with a dark thrill as adrenaline surged through my veins. I wasn''t going to let this moment slip away. "The old empire must fall," I said, my lips curling into a smile, "for a new one to rise."

    ------

    I hadn''t planned on hurting my father, despite all the cruel words I had thrown at him. But something inside me had snapped. I found myself standing by the painter''s bench, staring blankly at the canvas, not even realizing I had moved. Snow covered the ground outside, a stark contrast to the suffocating heat in the house. Everything seemed so vibrant, so different from the world I knew.

    My gaze drifted to a nearby caf¨¦, the one where she worked. I don''t know why, but I felt a strange urge to go inside, to talk to her. Maybe I was searching for an escape, something¡ªanything¡ªthat could pull me out of this spiral.

    I approached the caf¨¦ door, only to find it closed. It wasn''t a holiday, but for some reason, they weren''t open. Sighing, I turned to leave, thinking today wasn''t going to be any better than the others.

    Suddenly, the door slammed open, hitting me square in the face.

    "Oh sh*t," I muttered, clutching my nose in pain.

    A petite woman rushed out, her face filled with panic. "Oh no! Are you okay, sir? I''m so, so sorry!" She was small, with a button nose and wide, blue eyes that sparkled with genuine concern. Her brown blazer and beanie gave her a cosy, approachable look.

    "I''m fine," I managed, though when I pulled my hand away, it was smeared with blood. The sight made her gasp, drawing the attention of everyone nearby.

    "If you don''t mind, may I come inside?" I asked, trying to manage the situation.

    She hesitated, clearly unsure. But before she could respond, a tall, muscular man with dark curly hair and kind brown eyes stepped forward. He was clearly a caf¨¦ employee, and his presence was both commanding and gentle.

    "I''m so sorry about the accident," he said, smiling warmly. "Please, come in. We''ll take care of that."

    "Thank you," I replied, not realizing that I wasn''t just stepping into a caf¨¦¡ªbut into a new chapter of my life.

    "Who''s that?" A voice called out from inside the caf¨¦, one I''d been waiting to hear for what felt like a lifetime.

 Chapter - 11

    A Glimpse of You

    The caf¨¦ sat nestled on a quiet, cobblestone street, its exterior adorned with weathered bricks and ivy creeping up the sides. The wooden door, chipped at the edges, creaked softly as it opened, inviting you into its warm embrace. Inside, the faint scent of coffee beans and aged wood lingered in the air, mingling with the soft aroma of cinnamon and baked bread that had long since cooled.

    The space was dimly lit by antique brass sconces on the walls, casting a gentle glow that made the room feel smaller, cozier. Mismatched wooden chairs and tables, each with their own scuffs and marks from years of use, were scattered across the floor. The large bay window at the front let in the soft, golden light of the late afternoon, bathing the room in a nostalgic hue. Dust motes danced lazily in the beams of sunlight.

    In the far corner, a faded velvet armchair sat next to a small fireplace, its hearth cold and dark now, but once a place for crackling warmth on rainy afternoons. Shelves along the walls held an assortment of old books, their spines cracked and colors faded, as if waiting for someone to sit down and flip through their yellowed pages once more.

    Behind the counter, a vintage espresso machine sat dormant, its once gleaming chrome dulled with time, while ceramic mugs lined a shelf above, chipped and well-loved. The faint hum of a distant radio played old jazz tunes, adding to the timeless feel of the place.

    Though the caf¨¦ was empty now, it still felt alive, as if it held the echoes of conversations, laughter, and quiet moments shared over the years, waiting patiently for the next soul to walk through its doors.

    "Who''s that?" A familiar voice resonated around the caf¨¦. I had been waiting for this voice.

    Turning around, I saw her standing by the staircase which led to a second floor, the woman I had met just once before on a bench outside the caf¨¦. Her face hinted confusion. However, as her eyes contacted mine there was a spark of surprise.

    She walked over with a grace that was both commanding and effortless, her every step exuding confidence. As she took the seat across from me, her eyes flicked towards the other employees, a silent exchange passing between them¡ªsignals that only they seemed to understand as if she was orchestrating their movements without a word.

    The girl who had bloodied my nose stepped forward, explaining the situation to her. Snowflake nodded in acknowledgement, her expression unreadable. After a brief, regretful glance in my direction, the girl who''d hit me slipped out of the caf¨¦, leaving me with a sense of unease.

    Meanwhile, Snowflake''s eyes remained fixed on me, sharp and piercing, as though they could see right through me. I shifted in my seat, feeling their weight, my discomfort growing.

    "Uh, hi, I''m Aubrey," I finally managed to say, the awkwardness in my voice betraying me. She stayed silent, her gaze unwavering. It wasn''t until the man who had beckoned me into the caf¨¦ returned, holding an ice pack, that she broke the silence.

    "I''m Emma," she said, her voice smooth but with an edge that made it clear she was someone not to be taken lightly. The man, who had been so composed moments before, widened his eyes in surprise at her introduction.

    "I''m Emmet," he added quickly, extending his hand to me with a friendly smile. I shook it, relieved by the gesture of normalcy. His other hand placed the ice pack gently on the table between us.This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

    He gestured for me to use the ice pack, and I complied, pressing it gingerly against my throbbing nose. As I did, I noticed Emma and Emmet exchange a brief, knowing look before the young man disappeared into the staff room, leaving me alone with her.

    "I''m sorry for what June did to you," Emma sighed, her voice carrying a trace of regret that softened the sharpness I''d first sensed.

    Now that I was sitting so close, I could truly see her¡ªethereal in a way that made everything around her fade. Her features were delicate, almost too perfect, and I found myself wondering how she might smell, how her skin might feel beneath my fingertips. The thought was distracting, intoxicating.

    "So, Aubrey, you''re the painter who painted me the snowflake." Her smile was small but knowing as she gestured towards the wall where a framed painting of a snowflake hung.

    Of course. Snowflake. The name suited her even more than the painting itself.

    "You remember?" I asked though it didn''t really matter whether she did or not. Deep down, I had already decided that even if she had forgotten, I would make sure to engrave my name into her life, one way or another.

    "I remember every single person I met. My job kind of demands it," Emma shrugged, her eyes glinting with something unreadable.

    I chuckled. "Oh, right. Working in a caf¨¦, sure, that makes sense," I teased, though I sensed there was more to it.

    She responded with a mischievous smile, her lips curling slightly as if she held a secret just out of reach. "So, Aubrey, when did you start painting? The way you drew back then had me convinced you were a professional artist."

    Her words took me by surprise. I hadn''t expected her to remember my painting so clearly. I smiled, leaning back in my chair as the conversation shifted. "It all started with nature, actually," I began, feeling a warmth build as I spoke. "I''ve always been drawn to the outdoors¡ªthe colors, the textures, the way everything is always in motion. I''d spend hours just watching the sky change, how the sunlight touched the trees. And, eventually, I had to capture it. First with pencils, then with paints. I guess it just grew from there, any opportunity I got, I''d turn it into something creative."

    As I spoke, I noticed Emma was really listening. She wasn''t just nodding along¡ªshe was absorbing every word, her eyes softening. There was something about the way she watched me, as though she understood. The usual distance people keep when talking about art, not really *getting* it, wasn''t there. She seemed to feel it too.

    The soft glow of the city lights outside flickered on, casting a gentle shimmer across the caf¨¦ window. The golden hues spilled onto our table, making the moment feel almost surreal, like we were in a little bubble of warmth and connection, sealed off from the world outside. The bustling city felt far away, a background hum to the quiet intimacy building between us.

    Time seemed to blur, the conversation flowing effortlessly. We shared more stories¡ªfragments of life, thoughts, and ideas. Every word pulled me deeper, and for a while, it felt as though the rest of the world didn''t exist.

    But eventually, Emma glanced at her watch, a faint flicker of regret crossing her face. "I should probably get going," she said, her voice reluctant, as if she, too, was hesitant to break the spell.

    A pang of disappointment hit me, and I couldn''t help but cling to the moment. "Emma," I repeated, tasting the sound of her name on my tongue, savoring it like it might keep her here just a bit longer. "It was really nice meeting you, Emma."

    Her smile deepened, the warmth in her eyes still present. "Likewise, Aubrey. We''ll see each other again, I''m sure."

    As she stood up, there was a lingering sense of something unsaid, something she kept guarded, as if she had let me glimpse only a sliver of herself. When she stepped out of the caf¨¦, disappearing into the soft glow of the city streets, I sat there for a moment, replaying our conversation.

    It wasn''t until I left the caf¨¦ myself that I realized something strange: Emma hadn''t told me anything about her life. I had shared pieces of my story, snippets of the past that had shaped me, but she remained an enigma. It was like our entire conversation had been carefully steered toward me, as though she was gathering pieces of *my* life without offering any of hers in return.

    Snowflake. That name suited her more than ever now, elusive and beautiful, drifting just out of reach. But I knew one thing for sure¡ªI wasn''t done with her yet. The next time our paths crossed, I''d make sure to learn more about the mystery behind those sharp, knowing eyes.

 Chapter - 12

    Waves of Questions

    "So you fell for her at first sight?"

    Kais leaned forward, his curiosity evident as he took a slow sip of the tea Kennedy had made. The sudden appearance of Kennedy in the middle of the interview had been unexpected, especially since I had requested her to leave early today. Kennedy, catching the tension, offered a polite smile and said, "I won''t intrude, Mr. Ardel. I''m just here to hear the story, that''s all."

    I poured two spoonfuls of sugar into my tea, the granules falling like tiny snowflakes, and stirred slowly until they dissolved into the amber liquid. I met Kais''s eager gaze and began, "No, I didn''t fall for her at first sight. Not at all. But I was certainly enchanted by her presence. She was a stranger to me¡ªsomeone who appreciated my painting for what it was, not for the man behind it."

    Kais''s eyes sparkled with interest as he listened, clearly drawn into the narrative. "And what was it about her that enchanted you?" he asked, his tone reflective.

    I took a moment to savour the warmth of the tea before responding. "It was her genuine admiration for my work," I said, letting my thoughts drift back to that day. "She saw the art, not the artist, and that was something rare and precious. It was as if she connected with the essence of what I was trying to express, rather than being swayed by who I was."

    "Why didn''t Michael defend you in front of your father?" Kais asked, his voice edged with curiosity.

    I let a soft smile touch my lips as I reclined against the plush sofa, letting my gaze drift to the dark, shadowed ceiling of my penthouse. Time always seemed to slow down when I was lost in thoughts of the past. "You see," I began, my voice steady and contemplative, "when someone truly understands the reasons behind another''s actions, they don''t question or demand justifications. Instead, they stand back, watching and trying to grasp the full picture."

    I paused for a moment, collecting my thoughts. "Michael saw both sides of Arthur and Aubrey. He understood their complexities¡ªthings that others failed to see. His defence was a delicate balance, rooted in deep empathy. He approached them with love and care but was also mindful not to disrupt the fragile equilibrium between them. His support wasn''t just about confrontation; it was about navigating their conflicts with a wisdom that avoided further fracturing their already tenuous relationships."

    Kais''s face lit up with a genuine smile, clearly satisfied with the answers I was providing. Just as he was about to pose another question, the sudden ring of the doorbell distracted us from our conversation. Kennedy, who had been sitting quietly on a stool in the kitchen and listening intently, sprang up with a nod. "I''ll get the door," she said, heading towards the entrance.

    The door swung open to reveal Hayat, her face bright with a joyful smile. "Kais! Aubrey!" she exclaimed, her enthusiasm filling the room. She breezed past Kennedy and settled herself next to Kais with an air of familiarity.The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    Kais''s expression shifted to one of annoyance as he cast a scornful glance at her. "What are you doing here?" he asked, his tone dripping with irritation. His gaze suggested she was an unwelcome pest disrupting his carefully maintained environment.

    Hayat, unfazed, shot a defiant look back at her older brother. "Why? I didn''t see your name on the nameplate as I came in," she retorted, her voice laced with playful defiance. The tension between them crackled as Kais looked ready to strangle her with his bare hands.

    Before the situation could escalate further, I intervened, stepping in to defuse the brewing conflict. "Alright, let''s all calm down," I said, aiming to smooth over the interaction and restore a semblance of peace in the room.

    For another two minutes, Kais and Hayat continued their intense exchange of glares, their eyes practically sparking with animosity. The charged silence between them was almost unbearable.

    With a smirk that suggested she was thoroughly enjoying the spectacle, Hayat added, "My, my! Is my brother angry because, for the first time in his life, a girl rejected him?" Her words were like a match tossed onto an already blazing fire, intensifying the confrontation.

    Kais''s eyes darkened to a stormy hue, his expression transforming into one of barely restrained fury. "I swear to God, Hayat. I. Will. Kill. You." He growled his voice a menacing whisper that held an edge of violence. It was clear he meant every word.

    The notion of Kais facing rejection was almost unfathomable. Here was a man who seemed to be the living embodiment of a Greek god, possessing every attribute one might dream of¡ªexcept perhaps his occasional psychopathic tendencies. The idea that a girl could turn him down was baffling, given his near-mythical allure and almost otherworldly charisma.

    "Maybe you should introduce her to Aubrey," Hayat blurts out, her eyes widening the moment the words escape her lips. Instantly, her hand flies to her mouth, too late to stop the damage. Slowly... far too slowly, she turns to meet my gaze¡ªmy emerald eyes already fixed on her. "I''m so, so sorry! I didn''t mean it," Hayat stammers, shrinking under the weight of my eyes.

    "Please, don''t say anything, Hayat," I said gently, hoping to stop her from apologizing for a harmless joke. But the moment I saw her flinch, I realized I had only made things worse, deepening her discomfort instead of easing it. A wave of regret washed over me¡ªI should have chosen my words more carefully. Next time, I promised myself, I would be more mindful of how I speak to her.

    "Yeah, shut up, sis," Kais adds with a chuckle, clearly enjoying the tension.

    "Habibi, don''t take it the wrong way," I say with a soft smile, adding a playful wink in Hayat''s direction, hoping to ease the tension in the air. Her face softens, and I feel a wave of relief wash over me as she nods and returns a warm smile.

    "Iidha ghamaz li ''ahad bihadhih altariqat faqad ''aqae fi alhubi," Kais quips, dramatically clutching his chest as if struck by love. Hayat rolls her eyes and smacks him lightly on the back of his neck, her laughter breaking through the moment.

    "Ghabiun," I mutter, shaking my head with a grin.

    Kais leans forward, his playful tone shifting slightly, eyes sparkling with curiosity. "Alright then, let''s move to the next question." His voice turns teasing, and he tilts his head with a grin. "Mr. Ardel, why did you think of making Ayah yours?"

    His question hangs in the air, and I feel the weight of it. The room seems to pause as Hayat looks at me expectantly, her gaze soft but curious, waiting for my response. I draw in a breath, heart pounding as I prepare to answer.

 Chapter - 13

    Kais''s Pov

    First Impressions

    Aubrey Ardel¡ªa name that exudes such might, it commands reverence. The surname alone carries such weight that it could bring all of New York to its knees. Yet, I wondered, did the name Aubrey possess a power of its own, or was it merely a shadow, nothing without the grandeur of Ardel? As the eldest of the Ferdous family, a man of pride and tradition, these questions stirred within me.

    Seven years ago, my baby sister, Ayah, called me in excitement. She had met a peculiar young man who, according to her, intrigued her in ways she couldn''t quite explain. Concern and anger coursed through me. How dare some stranger try to captivate her attention! I was ready to hop on the first flight to New York, determined to confront this boy. But Ayah, sensing my fury, quickly reassured me. She insisted that nothing was going on between them, that he wasn''t even an acquaintance¡ªjust a fleeting moment of fascination.

    I''ll grant the man sitting across from me some credit¡ªhe''s got guts. It takes a certain kind of boldness to decide, after just one meeting, that my sister was going to be his. Seven years ago, when I first set foot in New York because of Ayah, I finally understood what Aubrey truly embodied. He was the calm before the storm, and that storm was his surname¡ªArdel. Together, the name Aubrey Ardel became a delicate dance between light and shadow, good and evil.

    But everything changed the day Ayah died. The storm was unleashed. The Aubrey we knew vanished, and Ardel took full control. Those days were drenched in terror. He became something far more sinister, more unpredictable¡ªa monster lurking behind a composed facade.

    Not to say I don''t have my own... darker inclinations. Some might even call them psychopathic tendencies. But the difference between a man like me and Aubrey is clear: with me, you always know there will be consequences¡ªyou''re prepared for them. With Aubrey, it''s different. His presence alone makes the very act of breathing feel like a gamble with fate. He''s a ticking time bomb, and you never know when or where the beast beneath his skin will surface. One moment, he''s calm; the next, you''re standing face to face with a nightmare you never saw coming. He doesn''t just command fear¡ªhe thrives on it, and when Aubrey Ardel steps into the room, the air grows thick with dread.

    That''s why, when Hayat flinched, I wasn''t surprised. Seven years had passed, and we still hadn''t quite figured him out. The only person who ever truly understood Aubrey was gone. I''ve never been a fan of stifling atmospheres, and the tension in the room was suffocating, pressing down like a vice. It made me feel sick to my core. To shatter the silence¡ªor maybe just to ease the nauseating sense of dread¡ªI decided to ask Aubrey a question, one that had gnawed at me for years.

    It was something I genuinely needed to know. Ayah wasn''t what most would call beautiful¡ªnot to me, at least. Stubborn, reckless, and maddeningly unpredictable. She drove everyone crazy. What could a man like Aubrey¡ªa man of such composure and control¡ªpossibly have seen in her?

    I had to be sure. I needed to know what made Ayah different in his eyes, and whether it was love or something else lurking behind that icy gaze.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

    "You know," Aubrey began, his voice low and reflective, "when people find something they truly want, they''ll do anything to hold onto it, even if they know deep down they can never really have it. That''s what Ayah was to me¡ªprecious beyond words, both then and now. From the moment I first saw her, something stirred inside me, something I thought I had long since lost. Happiness. It had become a distant, forgotten friend, but in her presence, I felt its warmth again. I remember smiling¡ªa real, genuine smile, something I hadn''t done in years.

    It was such a familiar feeling, yet so utterly strange. Being with her made me feel alive as if I''d been reborn. For the first time in what felt like forever, I spoke about myself, freely, and openly, as if I no longer wished to disappear. She brought a kind of vitality into my world that I didn''t know I craved until she was there.

    It wasn''t as though I hadn''t met women more beautiful than Ayah. But something was intoxicating about her, something that went far beyond physical beauty. Her mere presence made me feel... whole. She made me long for a tomorrow, a future¡ªsomething I had stopped caring about long ago. I wanted to love her, to claim her as mine because, before Ayah, there was no one I could truly call my own."

    Damn it. Was I seriously crying? I blinked rapidly, staring up at the ceiling, desperately trying to fight back the tears. I could feel them burning behind my eyes, but I wasn''t about to let them fall. Not here, not in front of him. Beside me, Hayat was already a mess, softly sobbing into her hands. Poor girl. She''d always been fragile.

    "Kais," Aubrey''s voice broke through my thoughts, smooth and laced with amusement. He tilted his head, a sly smile creeping across his lips. "Are you crying?"

    I shot him a glance, trying to hold onto whatever scraps of composure I had left. "Nah, man," I muttered, my voice thick with barely suppressed emotion. I gestured vaguely towards the ceiling. "It''s just... the ceiling, you know? So damn beautiful. Who designed it? I need their number."

    Aubrey chuckled softly, his eyes glinting with that familiar, mischievous spark. I could tell he wasn''t buying it, but he didn''t push. I wasn''t sure if I was grateful or even more annoyed.

    Kennedy called out, "Dinner''s ready!" Her voice echoed through the house, pulling me out of my thoughts. I glanced at my watch¡ªdamn, it was already 10:25 p.m. Time had flown by without me even noticing. Aubrey stood up from the sofa, stretching his long limbs with a deep groan, his joints popping loudly in the quiet room. Hayat, ever the helper, disappeared into the kitchen to assist Kennedy in setting the table.

    Meanwhile, I started packing up my instruments, neatly placing everything where it could easily be grabbed for tomorrow''s session. Through the large window, the night outside looked serene but bitterly cold. Fresh snow blanketed the ground, glowing softly under the streetlights, while tiny snowflakes still fluttered down, illuminated by the moonlight. The world looked like a frozen canvas, silent and still, as if time had paused just outside our door.

    I turned toward the dining table, and my heart swelled with joy. The table was a feast¡ªa celebration in itself. Platters of roast beef, seasoned lamb, mashed potatoes piled high with gravy, and steaming bowls of buttered vegetables covered the surface. There were loaves of fresh, crusty bread, golden brown and perfect for tearing apart. Every inch of the table was filled with dishes bursting with warmth and flavour. Who needed the hassle of love when you had this? Twenty different types of dinner, and I was in heaven.

    Just as we sat down, the warmth of the food drawing me in, I picked up my fork and sliced into the tender, juicy meat. The aroma was enough to make my mouth water. I was ready¡ªso ready¡ªfor that first perfect bite.

    Then, the doorbell rang.

    I froze mid-bite, my fork hovering just inches from my mouth. My stomach growled in protest as the sound echoed through the house. I glanced at Aubrey, who was already staring at the door, his expression unreadable. A slight tension filled the air, making the cozy warmth of the room seem just a little colder.

 Chapter - 14

    Continuation of Kais''s pov.

    Unexpected Guest

    The bell chimed again just as Kennedy was on her way to the door. Aubrey held up a hand, stopping her mid-step and signalling her to stay back. He took a calm, steady breath as he approached the door, and I, meanwhile, was locked in a ridiculous mental debate.

    If there was a murderer outside, should I at least grab one last bite of my food before I die? Or should I die fighting, like a real man? Not that I''d even be needed¡ªAubrey alone could probably handle an entire gang of thugs. But hey, if it came to blows, I''d happily jump in to help vent a little rage.

    Aubrey''s hand wrapped around the golden door handle, twisting it slowly. My stomach knotted right along with it, every nerve on edge. If there really was someone dangerous waiting on the other side, well... maybe I''d finally get a chance to cool off by pounding the life out of them.

    One, two, three... I counted, tightening my grip on the fork, anticipation making my pulse quicken. I was ready for anything¡ªor so I thought.

    When Aubrey opened the door, though, there stood Michael. Michael freaking Morais.

    My heart sank, annoyance prickling at me. Michael and I weren''t exactly close. We''d only known each other for about seven years, and even that was thanks to my sister. Our connection was more convenient than brotherhood. We''d spent enough time around each other to get on each other''s nerves, but never enough to truly break past the surface.

    He stood there in his usual calm, unreadable way, his expression so robotic it could drive anyone mad. No pride, no anger¡ªbarely even a hint of real concern as he glanced at Aubrey. That subtle, detached care he had for him? It was the one thing that made me tolerate him. But it wasn''t like I felt any deep sense of loyalty toward him. If anything, he was just... there.

    And yet, despite the frustration, part of me couldn''t help but feel a reluctant familiarity. We weren''t brothers, not by a long shot, but seven years of run-ins and mild disagreements had given us something close to a routine. He was calm where I was impulsive, detached where I was easily riled up, and maybe that''s why he got under my skin.

    Aubrey once told me I had a problem with almost everyone. But honestly? That''s just my way of loving people. Weird, right? I mean, I''m not like Ayah¡ªshe''s got her priorities so straight it''s almost intimidating. She knows exactly how to treat people like she''s got this secret rulebook for relationships. And I''m not like Hayat, the sweetheart who somehow sees the good in everyone, even when it''s buried under a mountain of flaws.

    Me? I''m the one who spots the cracks first¡ªthe flaws, the mistakes, the imperfections. It''s almost automatic. And yeah, I''ll admit it: I don''t even bother acknowledging the good in people most of the time. Why? Because I''m scared.

    Think about it. What happens when you let yourself get too comfortable with someone''s goodness? You start to rely on it. You begin to forget that, beneath all that kindness and charm, there''s a darker side¡ªa beast. And when that beast finally shows itself? Guess who ends up hurt? Yeah, me. Every. Single. Time.

    So, tell me¡ªwhat would you do? Would you take the risk and embrace the good, or would you guard yourself like I do?This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    "Did I come at a bad time?" Michael''s voice cut through the tension, his gaze shifting between me and Hayat before settling on Aubrey, who was still lingering at the door.

    "No," Aubrey replied, his tone measured but slightly caught off guard. "But I won''t lie¡ªI wasn''t expecting you. Is there something you need from me?"

    Michael hesitated for a moment, his usual calm demeanor betraying a hint of unease. It was subtle, but I noticed it. He was nervous. And, honestly, the awkwardness was starting to gnaw at me.

    "How about we sit, eat, and talk?" I blurted, mostly because my stomach was making the decision for me. The tension in the room was enough to kill my appetite, and I wasn''t about to let that happen.

    Thankfully, they both agreed without much fuss. Aubrey took the host seat at the head of the table, I claimed the guest of honor spot (a personal victory, if I''m being honest), and Michael sat directly across from me. Hayat slid into the seat right beside me, her presence as comforting as it was unassuming.

    "So," I said, breaking the silence as plates began to fill, "what''s the agenda here? Or is this just one of those ''see where the night takes us'' kinda things?" My eyes darted between Michael and Aubrey, hoping someone would clue me in.

    Aubrey smiled at me, but oh, I knew that smile¡ªit was the kind of smile people give when they''re more pissed off than polite. "So, Michael," he said, his voice calm but edged with tension, "are you comfortable enough to tell us the reason for your special visit?"

    Michael let out a dramatic sigh and rolled his eyes in my direction. "Seriously? Couldn''t this wait until after dinner?"

    Oh, great. Thanks, Michael. Love you too.

    I didn''t miss a beat. "Well," I said, stabbing a particularly juicy piece of meat with my fork and making a point to take my time chewing, "I was very focused on finishing my dinner. But then you showed up, so yeah, I think I deserve to know what this is all about."

    I made eye contact with him as I hopped another bite into my mouth, chewing slowly for effect. Hayat stifled a laugh beside me, and even Aubrey''s annoyed smile threatened to break into something more amused. Michael, of course, just looked at me like I was the most exhausting person alive.

    "So, spill," I added with a mockingly sweet smile. "What''s the grand reason you couldn''t wait to grace us with your presence?"

    Michael began fidgeting, his composure slipping. "Well, uh, actually... there''s no logical reason. I mean, I''m not here for business or anything," he stammered, glancing awkwardly at Aubrey. Then, after a moment''s hesitation, he continued, "But if you don''t mind, may I stay over... to hear the story of you and Ayah?" His cheeks flushed a deep red, and I could practically feel the embarrassment radiating off him.

    Aubrey raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair with an exasperated sigh. "Wait,  that''s the reason? Are you serious, Michael?" He pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. "For fuck''s sake!  Here I was, thinking it was something important. Fine. Yes, you can stay¡ªbut don''t ever pull this crap again. Do you even know how tense you made me just now?"

    Michael offered a sheepish smile, clearly regretting his dramatic entrance. But then, as if trying to change the subject, his eyes darted around the room.

    "Where''s the interviewer?" he asked, his tone more inquisitive now. "Wasn''t he supposed to stay until this whole thing was wrapped up?"

    Aubrey smirked, glancing at me with an amused glint in his eye before tilting his head toward me. "You mean that interviewer?" he asked, his voice laced with playful sarcasm.

    Michael''s gaze followed Aubrey''s, landing on me. His face instantly shifted from mild curiosity to pure disbelief. "This asshole is the interviewer?" he blurted, his tone teetering between shock and irritation.

    I leaned back in my chair, lazily twirling my fork between my fingers, and flashed him a grin. "Surprise," I said, my voice dripping with mockery. "Bet you weren''t expecting this level of professionalism."

    Aubrey chuckled, leaning his elbows on the table. "To be fair," he said, looking at Michael, "he is an asshole¡ªbut he''s also pretty good at what he does. Most of the time." He shot me a teasing glance, and I shrugged.

    "High praise coming from you," I retorted, spearing another bite of food. "Let''s just see if you feel the same by the end of the night."

 Chapter - 15

    A connection that was meant to build

    At approximately 1:30 a.m., I found myself on my private terrace, a cigarette resting between my fingers, while the other hand gripped the cool, sturdy railing. The night air enveloped me, carrying whispers of the world beyond¡ªa mix of solitude and solace I had come to crave. Whenever the weight of the world grew too heavy, I would retreat here, gazing at the stars with the same quiet reverence I once reserved for my Ayah.

    Sometimes, I like to imagine that when God called Ayah back to her eternal home, she scattered herself across the heavens, transforming into countless stars. Perhaps it was His way of showcasing her beauty to the universe, a reminder to me and anyone who dared to look up that the dead are not truly gone. They remain alive in ways we cannot fully understand, their essence woven into the fabric of existence, just beyond our mortal comprehension.

    Yet, I find myself complaining to God. Out of all the souls He could have called back, why did it have to be the one to whom I entrusted my heart? I never asked for riches or grandeur¡ªonly to keep the one I loved close. But my Lord, in His infinite wisdom and love, chose to test me, for perhaps He loves me more than I can fathom.

    All praise belongs to Allah. Keep my beloved close to You, sheltered in Your infinite mercy. And when the time is right, reunite us gracefully in the warmth of Your mighty presence, where no distance or sorrow will ever separate us again.

    I had heard many stories about Islam, which Ayah shared with me. She always found time to tell me about her faith, her voice soft yet resolute, carrying a quiet passion that drew me in. I remember the first time I told her I was an atheist, bracing myself for judgment, but it never came. Instead, she smiled, her eyes filled with understanding rather than condemnation.

    Later, she explained it to me in her poetic, mesmerizing way.

    "Every painting needs a painter," she began softly, her voice carrying a wisdom that felt ancient and eternal. "The world is like an empty canvas¡ªvast, hollow, and meaningless¡ªuntil someone paints upon it. Without an artist, it would remain nothing more than a soulless container."

    I leaned in, captivated, as she paused. Her gaze wandered, distant yet brimming with profundity.

    "To be created, there must be a Creator," she continued, her words resonating deeply. "And my Creator is Allah. When my Lord says, *''Be, and it is,''* creation unfolds effortlessly, as if His words weave the very fabric of existence."

    Her conviction painted vivid images in my mind¡ªvibrant strokes of faith on a previously blank canvas.

    "In Arabic, it is ''Kun faya kun,''" she added, her tone tender yet firm.

    Her eyes softened as she turned to me. "Humans, Aubrey," she said gently, "are born fragile. We stumble, we falter, and we sin¡ªit''s written into our nature. But in a world where hope dims with every passing day, there is Allah. My Creator¡ªshy, merciful, and infinitely compassionate¡ªreminds me not to fear, for He is always with me. Watching over me. Hearing my silent prayers."

    She paused again as if lost in a cherished memory. Then, her voice became steadier, carrying a sense of inherited wisdom.

    "My father used to tell me," she said, her lips curving into a wistful smile, "that if Allah chooses to protect you, no force in this vast universe can harm you. But if He wills otherwise, then no power¡ªno matter how great¡ªcan save you."

    Her words lingered in the crisp air between us, like a melody that resonated in the chambers of my heart.The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

    She continued, her voice taking on a quiet reverence, each word imbued with a sacred weight. "When we raise our hands in prayer, Aubrey," she said, her tone almost a whisper, "and we ask with sincerity, with pure intentions and hearts free of malice, Allah becomes too shy to let us leave empty-handed. Every prayer is answered¡ªsometimes in ways we don''t yet recognize, and always at the best time."

    Her eyes shimmered, reflecting the light of her unwavering faith. "Praying," she said, "is not just a ritual. It''s a deeply intimate moment. In those precious instances, Allah draws closer to us than even our own souls. He hears the pleas we can barely voice, wrapping us in His mercy and love."

    Her words painted not just a picture, but an entire universe¡ªa divine connection so profound that it felt as though heaven itself had stepped closer to earth.

    "A penny for your thoughts?" Kais''s voice broke the quiet, drawing my attention. I turned to see him stepping onto the terrace, his long coat fluttering lightly in the cold New York breeze. Behind him, Michael followed, hands shoved deep into his pockets, his face calm but unreadable as always.

    "You still do this?" Michael asked, his eyes narrowing slightly at the unlit cigarette between my fingers.

    I exhaled, more out of habit than necessity. "Old habits die hard." I hadn''t smoked in ages, but the cravings still crept in sometimes. Holding a cigarette¡ªeven an unlit one¡ªfelt like a strange kind of comfort.

    Michael extended a hand. "If you''re not going to use it, hand it over."

    I barely had time to react before Kais darted forward, plucking the cigarette from my fingers with a quickness that caught me off guard. "Absolutely not," he declared, his tone sharp as he tossed it over the edge of the terrace. His breath fogged in the air as he turned to Michael, incredulous. "Do you even hear yourself? Passive smoking is just as bad as the real thing!"

    Michael raised a brow, almost amused. "I wasn''t going to light it either."

    Kais scoffed, folding his arms as he gave us both a withering look. "You two are ridiculous. I''m saving you from yourselves, so... you''re welcome."

    "So, what''s the plan, my sweet brother-in-law?" I teased, leaning closer to Michael with a playful grin. He instinctively leaned back, giving me a wary look. "What exciting adventures await us tonight?"

    Michael sighed, his hands still tucked in his pockets. "Well, we can''t smoke, drink, or party. So... I guess we sleep?"

    "Don''t be such a bore, Morais," Kais interjected, shaking his head with exaggerated disappointment. "There are plenty of ways to have fun that don''t involve any of that."

    I smirked, raising an eyebrow as I tilted my head, my curiosity piqued. "Oh really? Do enlighten us, Kais. What''s your grand plan for tonight?"

    Michael shot him a sideways glance. "This should be good," he murmured, his voice tinged with dry humour.

    Before converting to Islam, Michael and I would have spent the night drinking ourselves silly or partying until sunrise. But now, those days were behind us¡ªor so we claimed. Kais, ever the optimist, seemed determined to find a "halal" way to keep the night interesting.

    "Just wait," Kais said with a smug grin, rubbing his hands together like he''d just concocted the world''s best scheme. "I''ve got a few ideas up my sleeve. You''ll thank me later."

    Michael raised an eyebrow, his skepticism almost palpable. "This better not involve board games."

    Kais laughed, throwing an arm around both of us. "Trust me, you''ll love it. Or at least pretend to."

    "We''re going to bike race. The winner gets to ask the losers for anything," Kais announced, a sly grin spreading across his face.

    Michael and I exchanged glances, our expressions shifting from skepticism to amusement. Eventually, a smirk tugged at both our lips.

    "Anything?" Michael asked, his voice low and deliberate, the glint in his eyes betraying his interest.

    "Anything," Kais confirmed with a firm nod.

    Michael crossed his arms, raising a brow. "And the catch?"

    Kais''s grin widened as he leaned closer. "We race to the Manhattan Bridge and cross it. No rules. We can get violent, use money, power, or whatever means necessary to win."

    Ah, now it made sense. This wasn''t just a game¡ªit was a way for Kais to channel his simmering need for chaos. For Michael and me, it was an excuse to get the adrenaline pumping.

    Michael tilted his head slightly, the corner of his mouth curling into a mischievous smile. "So... sabotage is fair game?"

    "Fair game," Kais replied, practically beaming.

    I couldn''t help but laugh. "You''re insane, but fine. I''m in."

    Michael''s eyes sparkled with whatever wicked scheme he was already cooking up. "Same. Let''s see what you''re made of, Kais."

    "Perfect," Kais said, clapping his hands together. "Get ready, because I''m not holding back."

    Michael and I exchanged one more look, the unspoken challenge between us loud and clear. This was going to be a night to remember¡ªor regret.

 Chapter - 16

    Let''s make chaos

    We made our way to my father''s mansion, the grandeur of it almost second nature to me but still awe-inspiring to newcomers. As we stepped into the sprawling garage, the sight never failed to amaze even me. Rows upon rows of gleaming cars and motorcycles stretched before us, their polished exteriors reflecting the soft overhead lights like a dream on wheels. It was a shrine to speed and elegance, a testament to the car-crazed obsession my father and I shared. Nearly every edition of car and motorcycle ever released was here, each piece meticulously curated.

    "Damn, man! Even I don''t own this many vehicles," Kais blurted out, his eyes darting from one car to another, his excitement practically vibrating in the air.

    I chuckled, amused by his enthusiasm. "Yeah, well, I''m a collector. Guess I took my passion to the next level. Anyway, let''s head over to the bike section," I said, my gaze sweeping over the cars with a mix of pride and adoration.

    Kais''s reaction became even more animated as we approached the motorcycle collection. "No way¡ªlook at these beauties!" he exclaimed, his voice filled with awe. "So, I can really pick any one I like?"

    I nodded with a small grin. "Yeah, but two of them are off-limits."

    His head snapped toward me, curiosity flickering in his wide eyes. "Why?"

    Michael, who had been quietly observing, chimed in smoothly. "Because they''re not just personal possessions¡ªthey''re very personal properties of the Ardels."

    Kais raised a skeptical brow. "But aren''t all of these ''personal properties'' of the Ardels?"

    Michael smirked knowingly. "You''ll understand when we get to that section."

    I laughed softly, shaking my head. "Trust me, Kais, those two bikes are in a league of their own."

    The exchange brought a comfortable camaraderie between us as we continued walking. Michael wasn''t new to this garage¡ªhe and I often took cars or motorcycles out for a spin as a way to unwind. There was nothing quite like the roar of an engine and the rush of speed to clear the mind and pump adrenaline into our veins.

    Kais lingered in front of a sleek black motorcycle, running his fingers lightly over the handlebar. "I think I''m in love," he murmured, half to himself.

    "Take your time," I said, leaning casually against one of the cars. "This garage isn''t going anywhere. Just remember¡ªchoose wisely. The ride says a lot about the rider."

    Michael grinned faintly, his arms crossed. "No pressure, though."

    As we entered the motorcycle section, my gaze instinctively fell on the two bikes that stood apart from the rest. Their presence was commanding, isolated yet unmistakably significant. Michael, ever the composed observer, motioned for Kais to follow him. "These," he said with a pointed gesture, "are the ones I was talking about."

    Two Kawasaki Ninja H2 bikes stood there like twin sentinels, their black frames gleaming under the soft light. Each bore the initials A. Ardel in elegant silver, alongside the birth years of Alex and me. They weren''t just machines; they were memories, pieces of a story no one else could rewrite.

    Kais stepped closer, his fingers twitching as though resisting the urge to touch them. "So, let me guess," he said, glancing at Michael, "Alex and you ride these, and no one else is allowed?"

    Michael nodded with the air of someone delivering a decree. "Exactly. No one else touches them," he said firmly. Then, with a smirk that bordered on smugness, he added, "Not even me. So don''t think for a second that you''ll get a shot."

    Kais shot me a look, raising an eyebrow in silent, exaggerated annoyance. His expression was clear: Can I run him over yet? I chuckled softly, scratching the back of my neck. "Well... actually, someone has ridden one of them."

    Michael''s smirk vanished in an instant, replaced by a sharp, questioning look. "What? Who?"Stolen novel; please report.

    "Your sister," I said, my voice steady but laced with a hint of guilt.

    "What?" Michael''s tone sharpened his usually composed demeanour unravelling. His eyes narrowed, and he looked at me as though I''d just committed an unforgivable betrayal. "You mean Kais''s sister? Ayah?" He jabbed a finger toward the bikes, his voice rising with every word. "You let her ride one before me? I mean, I know you''re her husband and all, and you''re head over heels for her¡ªbut come on! Of all people, she gets to ride it?"

    I shrugged, trying to keep my expression neutral, though I knew the reaction I''d sparked was inevitable.

    Kais, meanwhile, looked thoroughly entertained. A mischievous grin spread across his face as he leaned casually against one of the bikes. "Well, Michael," he drawled, his tone dripping with mock amusement, "at least a Ferdous got to ride it, right? Even if it wasn''t me."

    Michael shot him a glare that could have stopped a lesser man in his tracks. "That''s not the point, Kais," he snapped, his voice dripping with exasperation.

    "Oh, I think it is," Kais countered with a laugh, clearly enjoying the situation far too much. He tilted his head, his grin widening. "If my sister can ride it, maybe I should give it a spin too. You know, keep the family tradition alive."

    Michael crossed his arms, his composure returning in the form of a deadpan expression. "Don''t even think about it."

    The banter filled the space with a lightness that softened the weight of unspoken feelings. Michael''s fondness for Kais''s sister was evident, even in his frustration, and Kais''s teasing only seemed to deepen the dynamic. For a moment, surrounded by the hum of engines waiting to roar to life, everything felt comfortably familiar.

    The roar of engines echoed through the empty streets like a storm tearing through the stillness of 3 a.m. The Manhattan Bridge lay ahead, its glowing arches cutting through the darkness, daring us to claim it as our victory. The city around us was silent, a sleeping giant oblivious to the chaos about to unfold.

    We lined up at the starting point, three shadows on two wheels, clad in black motorcycle suits and helmets that rendered us faceless predators in the night. I was on my Kawasaki H2R, the ultimate beast in speed and power. Michael, ever the strategist, was mounted on his Yamaha YZF-R1M, calm and focused. Kais, the wildcard, was ready to let loose on his BMW M 1000 R, his cocky grin hidden behind his visor.

    ¡°No rules,¡± Michael said over the comms, his voice steady and cold. ¡°First to cross the bridge wins.¡±

    Kais laughed, revving his engine. ¡°Let¡¯s see if you two can keep up. I don¡¯t plan on losing.¡±

    I tightened my grip on the throttle, the beast beneath me purring with anticipation. ¡°You¡¯ll be eating my dust, Kais. Just try not to cry when it¡¯s over.¡±

    The signal was a flare, shooting into the dark sky and bursting like a firework. The second it lit up the night, we were off.

    The H2R roared as I twisted the throttle, the bike surging forward like a caged animal finally unleashed. The wind screamed past, biting and cold, but it was nothing compared to the heat in my veins. Michael and Kais were right on my tail, their engines howling in unison, the streetlights flashing like strobes as we tore through the city.

    Michael made the first move, cutting dangerously close to me on my left, his R1M nudging me toward a line of parked cars. I gritted my teeth, leaning hard to avoid them. ¡°Nice try,¡± I said through the comms, pushing the H2R to its limit and reclaiming my lead.

    ¡°Too slow!¡± Kais shouted, his BMW weaving between cars like a shadow. He slipped past us, his laughter crackling through the comms.

    We blew past red lights, the streets ours alone in the witching hour. The occasional taxi or late-night delivery truck was just another obstacle in the game. Kais veered to the left, cutting off a cab with reckless precision. Michael retaliated by tossing a wad of cash at the driver of a delivery truck, who promptly swerved into Kais¡¯s path, forcing him to slam on the brakes.

    ¡°Dirty moves, Michael,¡± Kais growled.

    ¡°Win first, complain later,¡± Michael shot back, his tone smug.

    The bridge loomed closer, its lights shimmering like a promise of glory. Kais recovered quickly, his BMW roaring as he pushed it to the edge. He took the shoulder, debris flying as he overtook Michael and closed the gap between us.

    The incline of the bridge was ahead, and the finish line¡ªits apex¡ªwas tantalizingly close. Kais was nearly at my side, his laughter wild and free. ¡°Think you can take me now?¡± he yelled.

    I grinned under my helmet¡ªtime to make my move.

    A delivery truck loomed ahead, blocking my path, but I saw the opening: a razor-thin gap between it and a car in the next lane. It was a gamble, but I thrived on the edge. I leaned low, my H2R screaming as I shot through the gap, sparks flying as I skimmed the truck¡¯s side.

    ¡°What the hell?!¡± Michael¡¯s voice crackled in disbelief.

    I surged ahead, the wind howling in my ears as the bridge lights blurred past. Kais and Michael pushed their bikes to the limit, but it was too late. The finish line was mine.

    I skidded to a stop just past the apex, pulling off my helmet as the cool night air hit my face. My heart pounded in my chest, the rush of victory as sharp as the adrenaline still coursing through me.

    Seconds later, Michael and Kais rolled up, their bikes purring like angry animals. Kais flipped up his visor, shaking his head. ¡°Well, damn. You really don¡¯t hold back, do you?¡±

    Michael removed his helmet, his expression a mix of irritation and reluctant respect. ¡°Next time, I¡¯m taking you out early.¡±

    I smirked, resting a hand on the H2R. ¡°You can try, but we all know how this ends.¡±

    The three of us sat there for a moment, the city lights sprawling before us like a crown of jewels. It was 3 a.m., and the world was ours alone. The race was over, but the thrill lingered¡ªa fiery reminder that we lived for nights like this.

 Chapter -17

    Tranquility

    Kais, Michael, and I watched as the golden sun stretched its warm embrace across the vast skyline of New York, setting the city aglow in hues of amber and honey. The river, once a silent wanderer, now shimmered under the sun''s affectionate touch, its gentle ripples dancing like molten gold. The air was crisp and clean, carrying with it the scent of the earth, the faint brine of water, and the distant hum of life. It was one of those rare, perfect moments where time seemed to pause, allowing us to simply exist within its beauty.

    We sat on our bikes, our helmets cast aside, surrendering ourselves to the gift of the morning. There was no need for words¡ªjust the unspoken understanding that this was something to be felt, to be absorbed.

    "It''s so beautiful," Michael murmured, his gaze shifting to me.

    I nodded, unable to disagree. It was captivating¡ªso much so that it reminded me of her.

    Ayah.

    My Ayah, who embodied every ounce of beauty I had ever known. No sunrise, no river, no sky ablaze with light could compare to the radiance she carried within her. She spoke often of her ultimate goal¡ªparadise. She longed for it with an unshakable determination, as though it were etched into her very soul. She would do anything to reach it.

    But how could I tell that fool that while she chased the paradise she could not see, I stood before mine every day? How could I explain that my heaven was not some distant dream, but a living, breathing reality¡ªa girl with eyes that held constellations and a heart that pulsed with magic? She bewitched me in ways I never thought possible, in ways I never thought real. Loving her wasn''t just a choice; it was an honor, a privilege, a miracle I would cherish for as long as the stars continued to burn in the sky.

    Whenever I breathed in the fresh morning air, I imagined I was breathing her in¡ªAyah, as if her very essence lingered in the atmosphere, wrapping around me like an invisible embrace. It was an unconscious longing, a desperate attempt to hold onto something intangible, something no living being could offer me. She was everywhere, yet nowhere at all. Did she know I still needed her? Of course, she did. Otherwise, she wouldn''t have sacrificed the career she loved so dearly just to be with me.

    A love like that¡ªselfless, unwavering¡ªwas not meant to be taken lightly. And yet, despite everything, there were days when I still wondered if I deserved it.

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    The moment of silence was broken when Kais spoke, his voice cutting through the tranquil air.

    "Michael, I was thinking about something," he mused, his tone casual yet laced with mischief.

    Michael sighed, exasperation already settling in before Kais could even finish his sentence. "Don''t bother me with your thoughts," he muttered, clearly not in the mood for whatever nonsense was about to spill from Kais'' lips.

    But Kais, as always, remained unfazed. He thrived on irritation¡ªespecially when it came to Michael.

    "I was just wondering," he continued, a slow smirk creeping onto his face, "what it would be like if I pushed you off this bridge?"

    The way he said it¡ªso matter-of-fact, as if he were genuinely contemplating the idea¡ªmade the statement even more ridiculous. There was a glint in his eyes, a playful wickedness that suggested he was far too entertained by the thought.

    Michael''s eyes widened, not in fear or shock, but in sheer disbelief at the absurdity of the question. His gaze flickered to Kais, then to the river below, before returning to the boy who was at least a few years younger than him but apparently just as deranged.

    "You absolute menace," Michael finally muttered, rubbing his temples as if Kais'' very existence was giving him a headache.

    And just like that, the serenity of the moment dissolved, replaced by the usual bickering between the two¡ªa familiar, chaotic contrast to the peace we had been basking in only moments ago.

    People often ask if we are brothers. The truth? We are. Not by blood, but by something deeper¡ªan unbreakable bond forged through time, trust, and the kind of loyalty that doesn''t waver. Sometimes, I think we''re even closer than real brothers. It''s almost surreal how three people who were once strangers have become inseparable, moving through life side by side as if we had never known a world without each other.

    "As much as I''d love to stay here and enjoy this moment, I have a job to do," Kais announced, flashing his signature smirk. He gestured toward me with a teasing glint in his eye. "I have to interview this winner right here. And besides, I have a gut feeling that Hayat is going to be absolutely livid if we don''t head back soon."

    With a practiced flick of his wrist, he checked his watch¡ªa million-dollar timepiece that gleamed under the golden light. That was Kais for you. Just as I had an affinity for collecting cars, he had a relentless obsession with watches. Each one he owned was a statement, a symbol of status, of precision, of the meticulous way he viewed the world.

    And then there was Michael.

    Michael was different. Detached. A presence that was there but always a step removed, like a shadow that chose when to be seen. He didn''t indulge in material fixations like Kais and me. He was something else entirely¡ªcalm, unreadable, a fortress of secrets.

    But I knew one of them.

    Or at least, I thought I did. There was something lurking beneath his composed demeanor, a truth that I had nearly grasped but couldn''t quite pin down. And the more I thought about it, the more I felt the urge to unravel it.

    Maybe tonight.

    Maybe when the right moment came.

    Or maybe, I''d just ask him outright. No games. No hesitation.

    Just the truth.

 Does the heart fall in love before you realize it, or do you only recognize it once its too late?

    After a sharp scolding from Hayat, the boys slumped onto the sofa, exchanging silent glances. The weight of her words still lingered in the air.

    Hayat had left to visit her husband and daughter, her disapproving gaze the last thing they saw before the door clicked shut behind her. Kennedy had also stepped out, heading for groceries¡ªand knowing her, she''d likely make a quick stop at her house before returning.

    "Well," Kais muttered, staring at the ceiling. "That went well."

    "Yeah, if by ''well'' you mean barely surviving," the Michael shot back, rubbing a hand over his face.

    I glanced at my watch. An hour had passed since breakfast, though it felt much longer. The weight of Hayat''s scolding still lingered in the air, pressing down on us like a thick, invisible force.

    She had been furious¡ªarms crossed, voice sharp, her dark eyes burning with disappointment. We had stood there, silent and sheepish, looking every bit like children caught in the act. It was almost laughable, really. Three grown men, reduced to schoolboys under her stern gaze.

    Ironic. None of us had mothers, yet here we were, being chastised by a woman who treated us as if we were her own. And strangely, it wasn''t an entirely bad experience. There was something grounding about it, something almost... warm.

    The room had settled into a quiet hum after she left. Kennedy had gone out for groceries, her usual routine. The only sounds now were the distant murmur of the city outside and the occasional creak of the old sofa as one of us shifted.

    I leaned back, stretching lazily before fixing my gaze on Kais. A smirk played at my lips as I arched an eyebrow.

    "Well enough," I said, voice casual but edged with amusement. "I presume it''s time for you to start my interview."

    The interview began shortly after, steering me back to the days following our first meeting.

    I had returned to the caf¨¦.

    Maybe it was the coffee. Maybe it was the atmosphere. Or maybe¡ªjust maybe¡ªit was because I wanted to see Emma again.

    This time, I wasn''t going to let our conversation be a fleeting moment. I was determined to get to know her.

    Pushing open the door, I stepped inside, the familiar scent of roasted coffee beans filling the air. My gaze immediately scanned the counter, anticipation bubbling in my chest.

    And then¡ª

    Not Emma.

    Instead, a familiar, unimpressed face greeted me from behind the counter.

    "So, you''re here again," the barista¡ªnot Emma¡ªremarked dryly.

    I forced a smile. "Hi there, Anderson."

    I could already tell this was going to be disappointing.

    I had been frequenting this caf¨¦ like a man on a mission, and yet every single time, I was met with the same soul-crushing response: "Oh, Emma''s out on an urgent matter."

    At this point, I was starting to question reality. How was a caf¨¦ employee busier than me¡ªa musician whose debut the entire country was supposedly waiting for? Was she moonlighting as a secret agent? Running an underground empire? If she was making more than me, maybe I needed to rethink my career.

    "Ardel''s Lemonade¡ªA Dollar a Cup."

    The mental image of me standing on a street corner, peddling lemonade to uninterested pedestrians, sent a chuckle bubbling up my throat.

    Apparently, I laughed out loud, because "Anderson" was now looking at me like I was a lunatic.

    "What are you laughing at, Audrey?"

    I blinked. Then blinked again.

    "Audrey?" I repeated, feeling personally attacked. "My name is Aubrey, thank you very much." I flashed him my best you-have-offended-my-entire-bloodline smile.

    The barista didn''t even flinch. "Likewise, Aubrey, my name is Emmet, not Anderson."

    I stared at him.

    He stared back, his deadpan expression unwavering.

    "Huh." I cleared my throat, thoroughly embarrassed. "So... Emmet, huh?"

    "So... Aubrey, huh?" he shot back, crossing his arms.

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    The sheer pettiness of it almost made me respect him. Almost.

    I shifted, shoving my hands in my pockets. Anyway, I''ll have the usual."

    Emmet squinted at me. "You don''t have a usual."

    Damn. He was right.

    I clicked my tongue, thinking quickly. "Then I''ll have whatever Emma usually makes."

    His expression soured instantly. "Of course you will."

    I was about to respond with something equally sarcastic when he leaned on the counter, eyes narrowing. "So, tell me, Aubrey-who''s-not-Audrey, why exactly do you come here every day?"

    I blinked, caught off guard.

    There it was. The million-dollar question.

    I could lie. I could tell him I really liked their coffee. That I enjoyed the ambiance. That I¡ª

    "...The coffee''s decent," I finally said.

    Emmet''s unimpressed stare told me he wasn''t buying a single word.

    "Uh-huh," he deadpanned. "You want that coffee to go, or would you rather sit here and keep pretending you''re not hopelessly trying to run into Emma?"

    I opened my mouth, then closed it.

    As far as I was thrown off guard, I knew this was going to be fun.

    I leaned against the counter, folding my arms as I fixed Emmet with a smug grin. "No, Emmet, you''re wrong. You think my frequent visits are because of Emma? How could you be so wrong?" I shook my head dramatically, as if deeply disappointed in his lack of insight.

    Emmet squinted at me, arms crossed, sizing me up like he was trying to decipher an overly complicated math equation. Then his expression shifted, a slow smirk creeping onto his face. "Wait... don''t tell me." He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. "You have the hots for June?"

    June? Who the hell was June?

    I blinked. Emmet read my confusion immediately and groaned, rubbing his temples like he was dealing with a particularly dense customer. "Seriously? Don''t tell me you don''t know who June is. The girl who cracked your nose?"

    Oh. Her.

    Flashes of pain and embarrassment surfaced in my mind. A hard fist. A moment of shock. The crunch of my own damn nose. Good times.

    Before I could defend myself, I smirked, deciding to turn the tables. "Emmet, I''m hurt. You really think I''m here for Emma or June?" I leaned in slightly, lowering my voice like I was about to reveal some scandalous secret. "I''m always here to see you, Emmet." I threw in a wink for extra effect.

    Emmet visibly stiffened. For a glorious second, I saw the panic flicker in his eyes.

    Then he let out a short laugh. "Oh yeah?" He leaned back against the counter, arms still crossed, his stance challenging. "You mean you''re here to see Anderson?"

    I groaned. "You''re never letting that go, are you?"

    "Not a chance, Audrey."

    We locked eyes, neither of us backing down. A lesser man might have admitted defeat, but I was Aubrey Ardel. I didn''t just play music¡ªI played people.

    And right now, I was playing Emmet.

    One might wonder, why was I wasting my time in such a ridiculous conversation? The answer was simple: I wasn''t.

    I was scanning. Observing. Watching.

    Because something about this caf¨¦ had been gnawing at me ever since I first stepped inside.

    The rhythm was off.

    First, there was Emma¡ªan absolute mystery. Always conveniently out on urgent matters. I''d met a lot of busy people in my life, but never a barista who seemed to have more pressing business than a touring musician.

    Then there was Emmet¡ªwho was, and I say this with all the respect in the world, absolutely terrible at making coffee. The man couldn''t foam milk to save his life. How did he even land a job here?

    And then, of course, there was June¡ªthe girl who had once rearranged my nose with surgical precision. I still had no idea what I''d done to deserve that, but what stood out was the way she carried herself. She was too cautious. In fact, all of the employees here were.

    It was subtle, but I noticed it. A certain awareness in their movements, like they were always half-expecting something. A tension in the air that didn''t belong in a simple caf¨¦.

    Suspicious?

    Oh, absolutely.

    And I was going to figure out exactly what the hell was going on.

    But first...

    I snapped my fingers in front of Emmet''s face. "So, you making that coffee or what?"

    He rolled his eyes but turned to the machine. "Sure, Audrey. One terrible coffee, coming right up."

    I grinned. This was going to be interesting.

    The coffee was absolutely fucking terrible.

    I took one sip and immediately regretted every life choice that had led me to this moment.

    It tasted like burnt regret and shattered dreams. Like someone had whispered the word "coffee" over a cup of boiled disappointment.

    I barely stopped myself from hurling the cup across the room. A miracle, truly. Normally, I wouldn''t have hesitated. But for some reason, I showed mercy¡ªmaybe because Emmet was watching me like I was a lab rat under observation, or maybe because I was just that impressed by how consistently bad he was at his job.

    I set the cup down slowly, forcing a neutral expression. "You know, Emmet, I almost respect the sheer effort it takes to make something this vile."

    He smirked. "It''s a gift."

    "You should return it."

    Emmet let out a sharp laugh but didn''t argue. Smart man.

    But the terrible coffee wasn''t the only thing bothering me.

    Something about this place wasn''t right.

    I had been coming here for days, and yet not a single person had acknowledged who I was. Not even a double take. Not even a whispered, Hey, isn''t that Aubrey Ardel?¡ªa reaction I was very much used to. Either these people had zero clue, or they were damn good at pretending.

    I didn''t believe in coincidences, especially not ones this bizarre.

    So I did what any rational, overly suspicious man would do.

    I had Michael run a background check.

    What he found only made things more suspicious.

    This caf¨¦ wasn''t new. It was old¡ªso old that it had been out of business for twenty years. And then, just three days ago, out of nowhere, it was suddenly back.

    No announcements. No promotions. No grand reopening event. Just boom¡ªbarely renovated, doors open, business as usual.

    And yet, there was nothing usual about this place.

    If the owner had been desperate for money, there would have been some attempt at marketing. A sign, a discount, a damn flyer. Something.

    Instead, the employees here acted like they couldn''t care less about how much money the place made. No one was trying to upsell. No one was rushing to serve customers. The whole vibe was...off.

    And then there was the manager¡ªEmma.

    The supposed person in charge, yet she was never here.

    I glanced around the caf¨¦, scanning each worker with careful precision. Emmet, smug as ever, leaned against the counter. June¡ªthe girl who had once rearranged my nose¡ªstood in the corner, eyes flicking toward the entrance like she was expecting someone to burst through the door at any moment.

    They weren''t just regular employees.

    They were watching.

    Waiting.

    And I was going to figure out why.

 Fleeting Longing

    Fleeting Longing

    I was a liar.

    The moment the bells above the caf¨¦ door chimed and she stepped inside, the world I had known just moments ago crumbled into embers. Every thought, every doubt, every shadow of my former self was set ablaze, reduced to nothing in the wake of her presence. If she had asked me to confess to crimes I had never committed, I might have done so without hesitation¡ªbecause deep down, I already knew I was being swayed.

    But love? No, love was too vast a word for what I felt then. It was something smaller, lighter¡ªa spark rather than an inferno. A mere crush, perhaps. Yet, if something so fleeting could make me feel drunk on nothing but the sight of her, I dared not imagine what true love would do to me. That would be the end of me.

    As she walked in, the caf¨¦ itself seemed to shift. The light caught in her hair, casting a golden glow as if she carried the sun within her. The air changed, thickened, became something more than just warmth and roasted coffee beans. She burned, not like fire that consumes, but like a flame that illuminates¡ªspreading radiance to everything and everyone around her.

    And I, helpless against the force of her gravity, knew in that instant that if she asked me to follow her to the end of the world, I just might.

    As I sat there, utterly consumed by her presence, the world around me faded into a quiet hum. Nothing else mattered. Not the clatter of cups, not the murmured conversations drifting through the caf¨¦¡ªjust her.

    Then, her eyes met mine.

    A jolt shot through me, like a spark igniting something deep in my chest. Hazel, warm yet unreadable, they held a thousand secrets I would never know, yet I longed to unravel them all. There was something regal about her gaze, something that made me want to bow as if she were a queen and I, a mere subject caught in the gravity of her presence.

    She took her time walking toward me, each step slow, deliberate, as if she were measuring the weight of the moment. But beneath the quiet confidence, I saw it¡ªexhaustion. A tiredness that clung to her like a shadow. She had been overworking herself, though I couldn''t understand why. The caf¨¦ never stayed open late, nor was it ever bustling with customers.

    Then again, with Emmet behind the counter brewing coffee that tasted like burnt regrets, it wasn''t exactly a mystery why the place was nearly empty.

    "Hey, Aubrey. Didn''t expect to see you here," Emma said, her lips curving into a smile, though it didn''t quite reach her eyes. There was warmth in her voice, but her body betrayed her¡ªshoulders weighed down by an invisible burden, movements sluggish with exhaustion.

    Her gaze flickered to the untouched coffee on the table. "I''m assuming you love our coffee way too much," she teased, amusement laced in her words.

    I mirrored her smile, but something inside me twisted at the sight of her like this. She wasn''t the same Emma¡ªthe one whose laughter rang like wind chimes in the breeze, whose presence could brighten the dullest corners of my world. Whatever was draining her, I wanted it gone. If she would let me, I''d fix it without hesitation.

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    "The coffee''s really good," I said, lifting the cup as if to prove my point. I forced a sip, the bitter liquid burning its way down, but I swallowed it like a man desperate to make a lie sound like truth.

    Emma sighed, and before I could react, she slipped into the seat beside me. Then, to my surprise, she reached out, her fingers brushing against mine as she plucked the cup from my grasp.

    "You don''t have to lie to spare my feelings, you know," she murmured, shaking her head with a tired chuckle. Her fingers, warm against mine for the briefest moment, pulled the cup from my grasp. But the sensation of her touch lingered¡ªa whisper of something unspoken, something that made my pulse stutter.

    "Let me make you a new cup of coffee," she continued, already rising to her feet. "Anything Emmet makes isn''t edible, so just give me a second."

    I should''ve let her go.

    Instead¡ª"Wait."

    The word left my lips before I could stop it.

    I reached out, fingers gently wrapping around her wrist without thinking. It wasn''t tight, wasn''t desperate¡ªjust enough. Just enough to make her pause.

    She glanced down, then back up at me, brows raising slightly.

    Realizing what I''d done, I quickly let go, retracting my hand as a quiet heat crept into my face. "I just mean... you look exhausted. It''s okay, really. I can drink it."She tilted her head, amusement dancing beneath her fatigue. "You don''t have to force yourself to drink this. Even though I''m tired, why make yourself suffer?"

    I exhaled, shaking my head slightly. My voice dropped to a murmur, barely more than a breath. "For you, I''d drink that a thousand times."

    Her brows furrowed. "I''m sorry, what was that?"

    "Nothing," I blurted, masking my words with an awkward cough. "If you insist on making me a new cup, then at least let me make it myself."

    Her eyes widened, genuine surprise washing over her face. For a moment, she simply stared at me, as if the very idea was inconceivable.

    "You?" she echoed, blinking.

    I smirked, crossing my arms. "What? Think I''m incapable?"

    She laughed softly, a tired but genuine sound. "Honestly? I think I''d pay to see this."

    That laugh¡ªlight, genuine, and utterly infectious¡ªwas one in a million. A sound so rare, so precious, that I wanted to hoard it away, tuck it into the quiet corners of my heart where I could revisit it whenever the world felt too heavy. Seeing her smile felt like a reward, an unspoken approval I hadn''t even realized I was craving.

    I gestured for her to take a seat, and as I turned toward the counter, I felt her gaze trailing after me, following every step I took. My pulse quickened under her watchful eyes, a quiet thrill weaving itself through my veins.

    "Where''s the apron?" I asked Emmet, approaching him with a purpose I wasn''t entirely sure I had.

    He turned, arching an unimpressed brow. "And when did you start working here?" His voice dripped with skepticism.

    I sighed, already regretting this interaction. "Since you started serving whatever that is to people," I shot back, nodding toward the cup Emma had confiscated from me moments ago.

    His scowl deepened, and for a second, I thought he was about to launch into one of his infamous tirades about his craft¡ªwhich, ironically, involved ruining perfectly good coffee beans. But then, as if sensing Emma''s presence behind me, he exhaled sharply, biting back whatever words had been perched on the tip of his tongue.

    With a grumble, he reached under the counter, pulling out a green-black apron, and all but shoved it into my hands.

    "Don''t burn the place down," he muttered.

    I smirked, slipping the apron over my head. "No promises."

    As I tied the strings behind my back, I turned to Emma, only to find her watching with open amusement, her cheek propped on her hand as she leaned against the coffee table.

    "Enjoying the show?" I teased.

    She grinned. "Very much."

    God help me.