Chapter Fifth - Episode 5
966 Words
Amam sat in the chair behind his desk, the phone ringing piercing the quiet room, its sound echoing like a ghostly presence. He glanced at the screen for a moment before lifting the receiver.
Amam: Hello…
Ghali (in a confident, almost tender voice): I’m telling you, Amam, Rabea’s marriage to Asmahan must happen. Rabea is like a son to me… I raised him with my own hands after I took him from the streets… He was only 14. I can’t bear to upset him; whatever he asks for, I must provide.
Amam paused, silent, the words settling heavily in his mind. Thoughts tangled and twisted: So this is the boy… he might be my brother… 14 years old, from the street… but his name is Rabea?
A faint, almost hollow smile touched his lips as he whispered to himself: My brother’s name was Hossam…
Ghali: Hello… hellooo…
Amam (regaining focus): Alright, alright… God willing, Ghali.
Ghali: And all the wedding costs are on me.
Amam: God willing…
Ghali: Goodbye.
Amam: Goodbye.
---
Amam climbed the stairs to the second floor, each step heavy with thought. He entered his bedroom and closed the door behind him quietly. There, on the bed, lay Asrar, her calm facade hiding curiosity and unease.
Amam sat on the edge of the bed, staring into the void, his mind entangled in Ghali’s words: Could Rabea really be my brother? Or is this just suspicion?
Asrar (softly, with concern): Amam…
But Amam didn’t respond. Silence hung thick in the room.
Asrar: Amam… why aren’t you answering me?
Amam (in a strained voice): Nothing… just a bit dizzy, headache.
Suddenly, Amam stood, leaving the bedroom in measured steps. He opened the door and left, closing it gently behind him, his face taut with tension, eyes searching for answers that didn’t exist. He descended the stairs toward the office, entered, and closed the door behind him as if sealing away all doubts for the moment.
He sat on the sofa, lit a cigarette, smoke curling around him like a shroud, and whispered softly to himself:
Amam: Maybe Rabea isn’t the killer… maybe he’s not my brother… it’s all just doubt… nothing proves it.
He tried to convince himself, trying to silence the nagging thought in his mind: Rabea isn’t the killer, isn’t his brother, just a boy from the street…
Hours of the long night passed, Amam still awake, sitting in his office, smoking relentlessly, thoughts racing like a storm inside his head. The family slept peacefully, unaware, while he remained trapped in a web of uncertainty, questioning: Is it Rabea? Is he really my brother?
Every answer he believed in was contradicted by another thought, every suspicion sharpened into terror. Light from the office window seeped into his room. Exhaustion overcame him, sleep claiming him at last. He collapsed onto the office sofa, leaving his wife Asrar, still a newlywed, lying in her room—a beginning of life together that he did not yet realize would be haunted by suspicion and shadows.
---
The phone on Amam’s desk rang, piercing the stillness of the early morning.
He stirred on the office sofa, eyes half-open, a haze of sleep clouding his mind. Slowly, deliberately, he reached for the phone, lifting it to his ear with a measured calm that masked his inner tension.
Amam: Hello…
Rabea (cheerfully insistent): I’m inviting you and the family to lunch today.
Amam (weary, distracted): I don’t have time, Rabea… maybe another day.
Rabea (insistent, bordering on pushy): No way, Amam. You have to come. You’ve never visited us before. And this is a request from Hajj Ghali himself. Come on, man, the work won’t disappear—you know that.
Amam paused, irritation flickering across his face, his mind already weighing the absurdity of Rabea’s insistence and the tangled web of obligations surrounding Asmahan’s engagement. Slowly, he responded:
Amam: Fine, Rabea… I’ll try to make some time today.
Rabea: Good. We’ll be waiting for you at lunch. Bye.
Amam: Goodbye.
---
The afternoon found Ghali, Amam, Amr, Rabea, and the extended family—Thikaar, Jawhar, Lamar, Otar, Ahlem, Asrar, and Asmahan—gathered around the long, polished dining table. Ghali’s wives, Shukran and Fadwa, flanked the table, completing the assembly of the two families.
Laughter and conversation filled the room, yet Amam remained distant. Fork and knife in hand, he mechanically moved through the meal, each bite secondary to the storm of thoughts consuming him. His mind wandered far beyond the polished silverware and neatly set plates, swimming instead through an ocean of calculations, fears, and premonitions.
To the families, the gathering appeared seamless, harmonious; the two sides mingled comfortably, exchanging pleasantries, unaware of the dark currents running through Amam’s mind. His eyes flicked occasionally to the knife and fork, as if measuring the weight of the decisions he would soon make.
What would the coming days bring? A joyous wedding for Rabea and Asmahan… or a funeral for Ghali and Rabea? The question hovered like a shadow over Amam’s thoughts, gnawing at him from within. Each word, each smile around the table seemed a mask, hiding the inevitable tension that no one else could sense.
When the meal ended, Amam’s convoy prepared to depart. Cars rolled down the driveway of Ghali’s villa, engines humming in the warm afternoon air. Ghali himself stood at the doorway, eyes fixed on the departing vehicles. His gaze was sharp, calculating—lines of experience etched deeply into his face, a map of past schemes and future plots. The shadow of cunning and anticipation lingered in his eyes like a dark promise.
With a slow, deliberate motion, he closed the villa door behind him and stepped back inside, leaving only the echo of his presence and the silent weight of unseen intentions.
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- Writer
