IN ANOTHER LIFE

Chapter 10: The Letters

Mr. Davis saw them too. Through the window.

He opened the lab door before Mr. Ibrahim could knock.

"Mr. Ibrahim? Good morning," Mr. Davis said, in his teacher voice. The voice he uses when a parent is angry. "What can I do for you?"

Mr. Ibrahim didn't answer him. He looked past Mr. Davis, at me.

"Daniel."

One word. But it felt heavy.

Aisha was behind her father. Her face was white. Her hijab was black, but her eyes were red. She had been crying. She looked at me and shook her head very slightly. _Don't talk. Please don't talk._

Mr. Davis stepped aside.

"Let's talk in my office," he said. "It's more private."

"No," Mr. Ibrahim said. "We will talk here. With Daniel. And Aisha. And you, as teacher. Because this is about school too."

The biology lab smells like formaldehyde and old wood. That morning, it smelled like fear too.

Mr. Ibrahim put the two letters on the lab table. Pink and white. The rock had left a little mud on them.

"I woke up this morning at 5 AM to pray Tahajjud," he said, calm, too calm. "I went to my daughter's room to check if she was awake. Her boots were muddy. Muddy at 5 AM. In December. I asked her where she went. She said she didn't go anywhere. I didn't believe her. So I went to the oak tree. I know about the oak tree. Yusuf told me. I saw footprints. Two. And under the root, I found these."

He picked up the pink letter. Aisha's.

He read it out loud.

_"Daniel, I heard you last night. Thank you. I know you deleted my number. My dad showed me the ticket too this morning. Columbus, Ohio. January 3rd. He said if we are boring for one month, he will tear it. I am trying to be boring. It is hard. I miss our 6 AM."_

His voice didn't shake. But his hand did.

Then he picked up my letter. The white one, on math homework.

_"Aisha, I found it. I wasn't supposed to go to the tree but I checked at 6 AM Sunday because I couldn't sleep and your root was moved. I knew. I'm not okay either. But we have 27 days left. We can do 27 days. If your dad tears that ticket, I will carve a bigger D + A on the tree, I promise."_

Silence. The frog in formaldehyde stared at us.

Mr. Davis cleared his throat. "Mr. Ibrahim, I think -"

"Mr. Davis, with respect," Mr. Ibrahim interrupted, but politely. "This is my family. I told this boy, man to man, no letters. No messages. No tree. For one month. To protect my daughter. He said yes, sir. He deleted her number in front of me. I respected him for that. But he lied. Both of them lied. Again."

He looked at Aisha. "Aisha, you told me you were going to buy milk. You went to the tree."

Aisha looked down at her shoes. Muddy boots. She was still wearing them.

"Baba, I -"

"And you," he looked at me. "You told me you would be classmates only. You went at 5:50 AM. In the dark. To leave a letter for my daughter."

"I - sir, I just wanted to tell her not to write again. I wanted to tell her to be safe."

"Safe?" Mr. Ibrahim laughed, but not funny laugh. "Safe is when my daughter is at home, praying, studying, not sneaking to trees before Fajr to leave love letters like a movie."

Love letters. He called them love letters.

Aisha started crying quietly. No sound, just tears falling on her black hijab.

Mr. Davis, who has three kids and says biology is about truth not feelings, did something surprising. He put his hand on Aisha's shoulder.

"Mr. Ibrahim," he said, softly. "They are 16. They are not bad kids. I have taught both of them for two years. Aisha is top of my class. Daniel is top of my class when he tries. They are... they are good kids who made a mistake because they care about each other. Maybe we can -"

"Good kids don't sneak," Mr. Ibrahim said. But his voice was softer now, because Mr. Davis is a teacher and teachers have power.

"I know," Mr. Davis said. "But good fathers also get scared. And scared fathers buy plane tickets."

Mr. Ibrahim looked at the ticket in his mind. The ticket in his drawer at home. Columbus, Ohio. January 3rd.

He sat down on the lab stool. Big man, suddenly looking tired.

"Aisha," he said in Arabic, then English. "Do you want to go to Ohio?"

"No, Baba," she whispered.

"Do you want to stay here, in this school, with... with Daniel as your classmate only?"

"Yes."

"Then why did you write a letter?"

She wiped her tears with her sleeve.

"Because being boring is harder than you think, Baba. I tried. I said 'hey' in the hallway. I didn't text. I deleted his number too. But then I heard you tell Mama about the ticket and I got scared and I wanted to tell him thank you. Just thank you. Because he deleted his number to save me. And I never said thank you."

She looked at me for the first time since she walked in.

"Thank you," she said to me, in front of her father and Mr. Davis and the frog.

My chest hurt.

Mr. Ibrahim looked at me.

"Daniel, do you want Aisha to go to Ohio?"

"No, sir. Never."

"Then why did you write a letter?"

"Because I found hers and I was scared you would find it first and think she broke the rule alone. I wanted to take the blame too. If someone gets punished, both of us should get punished. Not just her."

Mr. Davis smiled a little. "That's... actually very mature, Daniel."

Mr. Ibrahim was quiet for a long time. He looked at the two letters. Pink and white. Muddy.

He picked them up.

Then he did something no one expected.

He tore them. Both of them. Into small pieces. And dropped the pieces into the lab trash can where we throw used gloves.

"One month," he said, looking at both of us. "We start again. Today is Day 1 again. December 9th to January 9th. No letters. No tree. No footprints. No milk store excuses. No 5:50 AM walks. You are classmates. You say 'hey' if you must. Short. Boring. If you do this, I will tear the real ticket. I promise. On Quran, I promise."

Aisha's eyes went wide. "You promise, Baba?"

"On Quran, I promise. But if I find one more letter, one more footprint, one more rumor at mosque — you go to Ohio on January 3rd and you, Daniel, you will never see her again. Not even 'hey' in hallway. Because Ohio is far."

He stood up.

"Aisha, come. You are late for class. And you need to clean your boots."

Aisha looked at me one last time. Her eyes said: _Day 1 again. We can do it._

I nodded. _Day 1 again._

They left. Father and daughter, walking down the hallway, not touching, but together.

Mr. Davis turned to me.

"Daniel, go to class."

"Sir, am I in trouble?"

"No. But... be smart, kid. Love makes you do stupid things. Like leaving footprints in mud. Next time it snows, there will be no footprints. Wait till snow covers everything. Then you can be less stupid."

Was he... giving me advice on how to sneak better?

Mr. Davis winked. "I was 16 once too. And I had an oak tree. Mine was a maple tree, but same idea."

I left the lab. My hands were shaking.

In the trash can, the torn pink and white letters were mixed together.

D + A, torn but still together.

Day 1 again. 31 days.

And outside, it started to snow. First snow of December, covering the footprints by the oak tree like Allah himself was giving us a second chance.

But in the hallway, Yusuf was waiting by Aisha's locker, holding his phone, showing a picture to two boys from mosque.

And the picture was of me and Aisha at the oak tree this morning, taken from far away, blurry, but clear enough to see two people.

Yusuf had been following us.

And the rumor was about to start all over again.