18. Mamá, ¿dónde está papá?

Zayan remained silent.

Shoulders slumped, hands resting one on top of the other in her lap. Her eyes—opaque, unfocused—pierced the steam rising from an untouched teacup. The smoke curled in the air, slowly fading into nothingness.

Across from him, Belal watched him silently. He studied the stillness, the depression, the tormented emptiness of his gaze. He let out a barely audible sigh and sank down onto the opposite sofa.

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his voice low.

—We'll find them.

Zayan did not respond.

The room seemed to shrink with the absence of words. Even the ticking of the clock sounded hesitant, as if unsure whether to disturb the calm.

Belal looked away. His words hung in the air, like tea: untouched.

Then, the sound of small footsteps was heard. The door creaked.

A boy appeared, smiling broadly, his sandals tapping energetically against the ground. He was about six or seven years old.

“As-salamu 'alaykum, Baba!” he shouted, running to Belal and hugging his leg.

Noticing Zayan, the boy shrank back a little, hiding behind his father's knee.

Belal lifted him up with the ease that comes with custom, placing him on his legs.

—This is my son, Ibrahim.

He gently turned it towards Zayan, who still hadn't moved.

—Come on, son. Say hello to uncle.

The little one looked up, shy but obedient.

—As-salamu 'alaykum, uncle...

Zayan blinked, as if waking up. His lips moved slowly.

—Wa 'alaykum as-salam wa raḥmatullāhi wa barakātuhu.

His gaze fell on the boy. His little hands were now playing with the buttons on Belal's shirt. The boy whispered something to him, and Belal let out a soft laugh.

Zayan watched them—how Ibrahim leaned against his father's chest, how Belal's hand instinctively curled over his tiny back.

Would Zaeem ever lean against his chest like that? The thought tore at him.

His chest hurt.

Zaeem.

Would it still be that small?

Did he laugh like him?

Did he inherit Muntaha's eyes? His frown?

Did he even know her name?

Zayan's throat tightened. He gently pressed his lips with his fist, as if trying to contain an idea he didn't dare utter.

What would you do if Zaeem asked you where you've been all this time?

I would have no answer.

Not yet.

Maybe never.

He stood up slowly, his knees stiff. Belal followed him. They shook hands.

"We'll find them," Belal repeated, more firmly this time. More promise than consolation.

Zayan gave a slight smile. But his eyes were still sad.

At the door, he stopped, bent down, and took some bills out of his wallet. He handed them to the boy.

Ibrahim looked at his father.

Belal nodded.

The little fingers took the money, and Zayan placed his hand on the boy's head, gently tangling his fingers in his hair.

Then he turned and walked away.

---------

The return journey was slow. The traffic was barely moving. Every honk, every turn, every screech of brakes further accentuated the silence inside the car.

Zayan leaned back in his seat, resting his head against the glass.

At a red light, the car stopped.

A movement on the sidewalk caught his attention.

A woman—barefoot, her skin burned and parched—held a limp child to her chest. He couldn't have been more than five years old. His ribs were prominent beneath the grime. A broken toy dangled from her wrist, like a forgotten memento.

Their eyes met.

She stood up and walked over to the car.

—For the love of Allah, saheb… he hasn’t eaten anything.

His voice was barely a broken whisper.

Zayan rolled down the window.

He didn't say anything.

He simply reached into his wallet and handed her a thick wad of bills—thousands.

The woman's eyes widened. Her hands trembled as she received them.

“May Allah bless you, Saheb… may Allah bless you…” he murmured over and over again, his voice breaking with gratitude.

He ran away, clutching the money to his chest as if it were a miracle.

In the rearview mirror, Khan Ali frowned. He cleared his throat.

—Sir, may I say something?

Zayan didn't turn his head.

-Speaks.

—You're new to this city. You may not know it... but you're not what you seem. That woman... she comes here every day. She probably has a better phone than mine. This is a business to them.

Zayan didn't respond. He didn't care whether it was business or not. He just wanted to see the boy smile. Because his eyes were thirsty to see his own son.

Then he looked up, beyond the windshield.

The night sky stretched vast and silent, with stars that twinkled like wounds that refused to heal.

A gentle breeze blew. The city lights flickered.

And in the midst of all that noise and movement—Zayan remained still.

A man with a broken heart.

A thousand questions.

No response.

The night was sad. Just like him.

--------

The following days blurred into a single, long, desperate search.

Zayan and Belal traced every corner of Muntaha's past—his old school, the apartment he once rented, distant friends, even distant relatives. One by one, the paths closed.

No current address. No recent records. No one had seen her. No one knew about her.

It was as if Muntaha Islam had been erased from the world.

Zayan fasted during Ramadan, his days sustained by little more than hope and supplication. In the last ten days—the holiest—he prayed more fervently than ever. But with each fruitless lead, his hope vanished like smoke.

---------

It was late at night. Everyone was asleep. Except for Zayan.

He rocked slowly, the rocking chair creaking under his weight with each swing.

Suddenly, her phone vibrated. It was Robert.

Zayan answered with a sigh, pressing his fingers against his temples.