unknown fate

Chapter Six, Episode Two

The following day, at the stroke of noon, a sleek car pulled up in front of an old house tucked away in a narrow alley of the crowded quarter. The house, worn down by time, stood as a single crumbling floor. Its walls bore the scars of years gone by, and its wooden door, weathered and scarred, seemed to whisper the weight of countless knocks and hidden sorrows.

Imam stepped out of the car, his movements steady, though his eyes glimmered with a restless blend of anxiety and determination. He raised his hand and pressed the rusty doorbell; it groaned with a sound like a long-forgotten sigh. A few heartbeats later, the door creaked open, and an old man appeared, dragging his weary steps as though time itself had chained him down. His face was a map of wrinkles and scattered scars, his skin darkened and roughened by years beneath the sun, his white hair flowing like fading clouds. His eyes flickered with a dim light—half pride, half brokenness.

This was Mahmoud, the man who had adopted Hanan when she was a child and raised her as his own, the woman now married to Rabee.

With a trembling hand, Mahmoud gestured the way, his hoarse voice carrying the remnants of authority long eroded:

– Come in…

He closed the door behind him and shuffled toward the sitting room, collapsing onto a threadbare sofa that sagged in the corner, its fabric worn thin by decades of silence and sorrow. He kept his gaze low for a moment before lifting his head slowly, fixing his weary eyes on Imam.

Imam stood firm at the center of the room, unflinching, the air between them heavy with something unspoken. His voice cut through the silence, sharp and devoid of ceremony:

– I came to ask you about your daughter… Hanan.

Mahmoud’s eyebrows twitched, his face instantly clouded with dread. His voice cracked, filled with a father’s panic:

– What about her? Did something happen?

His hands trembled as they clutched at the edge of the sofa, his eyes searching Imam’s expression for any sign of reassurance.

Imam took a step closer, lowering his voice, as though unveiling a secret too dark to speak aloud:

– Calm down… she’s fine. But I need to know… is she really your daughter? Or did you find her… abandoned at the train station, when she was just a child… ten years old?

Mahmoud froze. The words struck him like lightning, leaving him paralyzed in place. His lips quivered, and the dim light in his eyes flickered out, replaced by the terror of a truth long buried. Slowly, almost unwillingly, he raised his head, his voice breaking as he whispered:

– How… how did you know that? That secret… no one on this earth was ever supposed to know.

Imam’s phone rang suddenly, slicing through the heavy silence that had blanketed the room. Slowly, he pulled it from his pocket, his eyes scanning the screen with wary focus before lifting it to his ear and exhaling:

– Hello…

Ghāli’s voice came through the line, rough and tense, carrying the weight of storms behind it:

– This isn’t the time for settling old scores, Imam. We carry out the operation first, then I’ve got a surprise for you… something that’ll please you, ease your mind. Don’t go digging into old files now. Listen carefully: forget about that senile old man you’re sitting with. He’s had enough. Throw him a couple of bills and leave. We’ve got big business—bigger than you can imagine. Now’s not the time, Imam, do you understand?

For a moment Imam remained silent, his face carved in stone, eyes sinking into some unseen point ahead. Then he gave the slightest nod, his reply low and sharp:

– Fine… fine.

He lowered the phone, slipped it back into his pocket, then pulled out some money and, with cold indifference, tossed it into the old man’s face. The bills fluttered through the air before scattering across the floor, more insult than charity. Without another glance, he turned, his steps slow, deliberate, toward the door.

But Mahmoud would not accept it. His frail body trembled, rage surging through his veins like fire. With a suddenness that betrayed his age, he sprang from his seat, his voice cracking with desperation:

– I won’t let you walk away… not until I know who you really are!

He lunged forward, clutching at Imam’s clothes from behind with every ounce of strength he had left, clinging as if to the truth itself before it slipped away.

– Wait… I said wait!

Imam stopped. For a moment, the air froze. Slowly, he turned his head, his eyes glinting with a cold, razor-sharp gleam. Then, without a word, he lifted his leg and drove his foot hard into Mahmoud’s chest.

The old man crashed to the floor, his frail body striking the worn-out rug with a dull thud that made the walls quiver. He lay sprawled, gasping for breath, while the scattered money surrounded him like witnesses—tokens of betrayal and humiliation.

Imam stood over him for a long heartbeat, his gaze devoid of mercy, before turning his back and pushing the door open to leave.

Mahmoud remained on the ground, struggling to rise, his voice ragged, echoing after Imam as he crossed the threshold:

– I won’t let you go… not until I know who you are…

But the door slammed shut, and the house sank into a suffocating silence, as though it had swallowed yet another secret to bury alongside the rest.

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