the Voice from the Silence
1324 Words
Listening to “Engel’s Legacy” led me nowhere.
The song felt empty—hollow notes wrapped in mystery but offering no answers. I no longer understood why my friend had dragged me to “Stars of the Fifties” just to hand me that useless vinyl. The old woman who owned the record shop had also vanished. No one in the neighborhood knew where she had gone. It was as if she had never existed.
Once again, I was back at the beginning.
For hours I replayed the record in my mind, trying to find some hidden meaning in its melody. Maybe there had been a coded message hidden between the notes. Maybe a pattern I had failed to recognize. But the more I thought about it, the more meaningless it felt.
I wished my friend would simply appear and end this confusion.
But she was hiding—I knew that much—hiding to avoid being harmed. She had always been cautious, always three steps ahead of everyone else. If she had disappeared, then something truly dangerous must be happening.
If I wanted answers, I would have to search for them myself.
The first place that came to mind was her apartment.
The building looked exactly the same as always, quiet and ordinary. People walked past without noticing me, lost in their own routines. I waited across the street for several minutes, pretending to check my phone while carefully watching the entrance.
No one suspicious.
No one waiting.
No one watching.
Still, a strange unease settled in my chest.
I crossed the street and entered the building. The hallway smelled faintly of old wood and detergent. The lights flickered once before stabilizing.
I climbed the stairs slowly, listening to every sound.
Silence.
When I reached her door, I hesitated for a moment. The spare key was exactly where she once told me it would be—hidden inside the small c***k behind the hallway fire extinguisher.
My fingers found it instantly.
The lock clicked softly beneath my hand, and I stepped inside.
Silence.
Too much silence.
The air felt stale, as though the apartment had been sealed away from the world. Everything was perfectly in place. Dust had begun to settle over the untouched furniture.
No signs of forced entry.
No signs of struggle.
No signs of life.
Her jacket still hung beside the door. A coffee mug sat on the kitchen counter, the faint ring of dried coffee at the bottom. Even the curtains were exactly as she always kept them.
It looked like she had simply stepped out for a moment.
But she never returned.
Still, something felt wrong.
I began searching the apartment carefully.
Desk drawers.
Wardrobe compartments.
Kitchen cabinets.
Boxes beneath the bed.
Every possible hiding place.
My pulse quickened with every passing minute. I expected to find something—anything—that would explain her disappearance.
But there was nothing.
No documents.
No notes.
No messages.
It was as if someone had erased every trace of whatever she had been working on.
Then I saw it.
A novel was resting on her bedside table, as though it had been the last thing she touched before disappearing.
I picked it up slowly.
It was written in English.
Engel’s Legacy.
The same name as the record.
This could not be a coincidence.
The cover was simple but strangely unsettling. Dark clouds surrounded a faint silhouette of wings in the distance.
I sat on the edge of the bed and began reading.
The story told of a girl who had defeated the Devil and come into possession of a weapon unlike anything the world had ever known—a power so rare that both angels and demons hunted her for it.
She was forced into a battle between life and death to protect herself, the man she loved, and all of humanity.
The deeper I read, the stranger it felt.
The characters moved through a world that felt disturbingly familiar. Cities that resembled real places. Conflicts that sounded less like fantasy and more like secrets hidden beneath reality.
Then one line struck me like a whisper meant only for me:
“The weapon was never meant to be carried… it was meant to be awakened.”
A chill ran down my spine.
Awakened.
What kind of weapon needed to awaken?
The story felt alive.
Too alive.
As if it were reflecting our reality instead of fiction.
I still did not know what the weapon was.
I did not know who I was in this story.
But the novel confirmed one thing: whatever my friend possessed was powerful. Dangerous. And not everyone searching for it was evil—which made the situation even more dangerous.
Trust no one.
I spent the night there, waiting for dawn. Maybe staying in her apartment would reveal something I had missed. Maybe morning would bring clarity.
I barely slept.
Every small sound in the building made my eyes snap open. Footsteps in the hallway. A door closing somewhere below. Pipes groaning inside the walls.
Morning finally arrived with pale sunlight filtering through the curtains.
But clarity never came.
Even with the novel in my hands, the connection remained incomplete.
There was only one person left who might hold the missing piece.
The ambassador’s daughter.
At ten o’clock sharp, I found her at the tennis club.
She was preparing for her usual training session, dressed in white, radiant under the morning sun. Her movements were precise and confident as she practiced powerful serves across the court.
I waited in the same place as before.
When she finished, she approached me, graceful and composed.
She pulled a chair, crossed one leg over the other, leaned back, and exhaled slowly.
“Did you come to apologize for throwing me out of your house?” she asked coolly.
I smiled.
“No. I came because you have something I need to understand. I heard you wanted to help. Unless… I should look for another tennis player.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
“And what does tennis have to do with any of this?”
“I have a final match to play,” I said calmly. “Against the Devil. And I need an angel on my side. I believe I can win.”
For the first time, confusion crossed her face.
“I don’t understand you,” she said. “That’s new.”
“Simple,” I replied. “You’re searching for something important. Something my friend may have left with me. I don’t know what it is. I don’t know where it is. But I’m willing to help you find it.”
I leaned forward slightly.
“In exchange, you guarantee my safety. Especially if we get too close to the Devil’s house.”
Her expression shifted—not fear, not shock—calculation.
“Do you really believe the ones searching for Black Rain are that dangerous?” she asked. “Dangerous enough to call them the Devil?”
“They are,” I answered without hesitation. “British Intelligence has already sent someone to reach Black Rain before they do.”
That caught her attention.
“And let’s be clear,” I continued. “I’m not here to take orders. And I won’t tell you everything. Only what I decide is necessary.”
I stood, ready to leave.
“Will I see you tonight?” she asked suddenly.
“I’ll be at Bayt Beirut,” I replied. “Celebrating my promotion.”
I paused at the doorway.
“And I’m picking up my new car.”
I walked away, fully aware that her eyes were still on me.
Watching.
Measuring.
Waiting.
But as I stepped outside the club, my phone vibrated in my pocket.
Unknown number.
I answered.
For a moment, there was only silence.
Then a familiar voice whispered:
“You shouldn’t have gone to my apartment.”
My blood froze.
It was her.
- Writer
