WHEN I FINISH MY SHIFT, I FIND KENAN STANDING beside the front door, fiddling with his camera with a concentrated look on his face. I stop in my tracks to admire it: an expression that isn’t lined with worry or pain or shame. One that reminds me of late spring afternoons. Something about the way he stands there so casually in his wool sweater creates that aching feeling in my stomach for the might life that was robbed from me. From us.
In that life, I’d train here and he’d be waiting for me on the steps of the hospital, doodling in his sketchbook. He’d treat me to booza at Al-Halabi Desserts and tell me about the quaint Japanese town he wants us to move to.
He’d teach me a few Japanese characters, chuckling at my awkward pronunciation. But he’d be patient until I said them right, beaming proudly at me. He’d quiz me on my next pharmacology exam. But we’d quickly get distracted, falling into another conversation. I’d tell him about the stories I have in my mind that are inspired by Studio Ghibli. That I, too, find little bits of magic in our world and amplify them in my stories.
“Hey,” I say, and he jumps, but smiles when he sees me. “Is something wrong? Do you need anything?”
“No, I’m okay. Are you done with your shift?”
“Yes?”
“Good.” He straightens and I have to tilt my head back a bit to look him
in the eyes. “I’m taking you home.”
Oh my God.
“You don’t have to do that.”
He shakes his head. “It’s fine.”
“You don’t have to keep paying me back for saving Lama. Taking me home means you’re spending more time outside. As a target.”
My palms start sweating with the way he’s staring at me. It’s as if he’s
tuned everyone out and I’m the only one here.
“Salama.” My heart skips a beat when he pronounces my name. All soft and warm. “I want to do this.”
Well, if he wants to, the foolish part whispers to me, then let him.
“Unless I’m bothering you,” he says hastily, his face stricken with panic.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t even realize—”
I shake my head quickly. “No, you’re not. I promise.”
He smiles hesitantly and every worry flies out of my head.
We walk side by side, our footsteps echoing over the gravel, the sounds magnified against my ears. The rustling of dead leaves, a sad bird’s cries atop the bare branches, and the faint arguing of people standing outside their houses. I can hear each breath he takes, and my heartbeat is deafening against my eardrums.
I glance at my hands and see splotches of red pigmenting my skin. Red like Samar’s blood. I bite back a shriek because I’m sure I washed my hands. I spent ten minutes doing it. When I look again, the red is gone, but the sounds all around me are still screaming: murderer.
“Salama.” Kenan’s voice cuts through the shrieks and I stop, gasping in a sharp breath.
I take in my surroundings, and realize I’m sitting on the ground with Kenan standing in front of me. His expression is fearful in the crease
between his eyes.
For me, I realize.
“Salama, are you all right?” He crouches beside me. “Are you hurt?”
I don’t trust my voice, so I shake my head. He’s eye level with me and so close I can smell the faint scent of lemons on him. Or maybe I’m
hallucinating that too.
“Then what is it?”
I look around, searching for Khawf, and I find him a few steps behind Kenan. His smirk is sharp, satisfied with today’s proceedings. I close my eyes, willing him away. His presence is an anchor on my chest, sinking me deeper and deeper, a reminder of what I’ve done. Of everything I’ve lost and will ever lose.
A few shattered buildings line the quiet road. It’s only a few minutes away from my home, and right now Kenan and I are the only ones here, kneeling beside the wreckage.
But Khawf is still here, and I can’t think of anything but what I’ve done.
Blood drains from my body and quickly I say, “Tell me something good.”
Kenan draws back a bit, the confusion settling deeper. “Wha—”
“Kenan, please,” I plead and tear my eyes back to him. “Please.”
He looks over at where I was staring, but he can’t see Khawf. I stare at Kenan, studying his features, and murmur under my breath, “Daisies.
Sweet-smelling daisies. White petals. Yellow centers.”
Kenan’s cheeks are hollow. It’s a sign of malnourishment, but I’m sure that even if he were a healthy weight, those cheekbones would look like they could cut me if I touched them. He glances back at me and I can see him fighting with himself not to ask the million questions teetering on his tongue.
Finally, he takes a deep breath and says, “My favorite Studio Ghibli movie is Castle in the Sky. It made me see the world differently. There is so much magic in it, Salama. A boy with a dream to see a floating island. A girl who’s the last of her people. How both these children are able to save the world from a power-hungry man’s evil ambitions. It has robots and a magical amulet and one of the best ending theme songs ever.”
He laughs quietly, lost in his own words. My breath slows and I listen to what he’s saying. I don’t remember when I last watched Castle in the Sky, but I can still see it playing out so clearly in my mind.
“There’s this scene,” Kenan continues, “where Pazu and Sheeta are standing atop the airship and it’s night. Even animated, the sky is… endless.
And they talk about their fears and how a series of unfortunate events made them meet. I was only ten years old when I first watched it, but that scene hit me like no other. This was a story about kids the same age I was, who were scared but still doing the right thing. It made me want to be brave too.
Made me want to tell my own stories. Create my own worlds. And I thought maybe—one day—I’d have my own adventure and meet my Sheeta.”
He’s been staring at me the whole time but I don’t think he’s seeing me.
His eyes have taken on a dreamlike sheen, and I’m entranced by the peace his words have painted on his expression.
The world around us has gone silent, the breeze the only sound swishing between us. And just like that, my panic subsides and I wish we could stay here, sitting on the ground forever, surrounded by the sanctuary his words
have created.
But then his gaze sharpens, and when he finally sees me, his cheeks are as pink as carnations. He’s paler than I am and not very good at hiding his expressions.
He clears his throat and the spell is broken. “Are—was that something good?”
I nod and hold on to this moment, tucking it in my heart to revisit when
the sadness comes back.
He smiles. “All right.”
We stand and continue walking. I’m thankful he doesn’t ask what happened, but it doesn’t feel right to stay silent.
“Did you get what you need?” I nod toward his camera.
“Oh yes. I recorded the sniper victims, and there was one family who didn’t want their faces blurred. They want the truth to be blazing.”
My stomach feels hollow. He did record the sniper victims. I thought I made sure to check if he was in my vicinity, but then again, I was running on adrenaline and nerves and could have easily not seen him.
“Oh,” I say casually. “What kind of shots did you take?”
He shakes his head. “I was interviewing a family in another room when the sniper victims came in. By the time I got there, I couldn’t move through the sea of bodies and I didn’t want to be in anyone’s way. The closest to me was Dr. Ziad, so I recorded him and his patient.”
My chest expands with relief, but guilt sours every breath I take.
“But I saw you save that girl’s life,” he says in awe. “I looked up and saw you stitching her neck. The bullet went straight through, right?”
I try not to falter. “Yes.”
My home is around the next corner, ten feet away.
“You saved her father’s life by saving hers,” he says, thankfully not catching on to the shame I’m trying to erase from my expression. But there’s something in his tone that makes me glance at him, and when I do, he looks almost terrified. It vanishes as our eyes meet and he smiles his kind smile. “You’re amazing.”
The compliment tastes like cyanide in my mouth, and I swallow the tears. God, I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve his kindness or his dreams.
“We’re here,” he says, and my blue door comes into view.
I take out my keys, hands shaking a bit.
“Hey, listen,” he says, and I look up at him, quickly blanking my face. “I remember you mentioning Layla is seven months pregnant, right?”
“Yes,” I say slowly.
He runs a hand through his hair, looking suddenly bashful. “I know we met yesterday. But I’d like to believe in an alternate universe, where this”— he gestures between us—“would have worked out spectacularly. If there’s anything you or she need, please tell me.”
My eyelashes flutter.
When I don’t say anything, he continues, more flustered than ever, “Especially because, you know, there could be snipers or something, and Layla shouldn’t be getting groceries in her condition. And neither should you—”
“Thank you,” I interrupt, and he lets out a relieved sigh. “But Layla
doesn’t leave the house anyway.”
He frowns. “Is she all right?”
I nod, fidgeting with the keys. “We had a close call with a sniper last October. Layla was on her way back from the supermarket. Actually, just over there—” I point to the end of the dusty road where a huge electrical pole stands broken in half, the metallic skin of it gleaming in the afternoon light. Rusted blood coats the pavement under it. “Snipers started shooting.
She wasn’t the only one there. Three women and one man died that day.
Layla and one other child were the only survivors. She hid under a stray chunk of debris until it was safe.” I take a deep breath. The terror I felt that day when I heard there was a military sniper in our neighborhood was unparalleled.
I had run back home, not a care in the world for my safety. All I could hear was Hamza’s plea replaying in my brain like a broken cassette. His voice beseeching me to save his wife. I arrived to find the aftermath of blood trickling down the streets between the glass shards and rubble. The martyrs had been carried away to the graveyard. Only a soul-crushing silence was left, as if the essence of this corner in Old Homs were shell- shocked. My legs could barely propel me to the front door before I flung it open.
And Layla was there, sitting on the floor with her back to the peeled wallpapered wall, sobbing. Her face was tear-stained, small cuts on her forehead and arms. When I hugged her, she smelled of rubble, smoke, and
blood, but it didn’t matter. She was alive.
“You’re alive,” I choked through my cries, pressing her closer. “You’re alive.”
It was from that day on that Layla became adamant about leaving Syria.
“Oh my God,” Kenan whispers. “That is… I can’t begin to imagine.”
“Yes,” I reply and tighten my hold on the keys until it starts to hurt.
“You can imagine, Kenan. That time it was Layla, and it was only by God’s mercy that she walked away unharmed. Today, tomorrow, in two weeks, it could be Lama or Yusuf. But they might not be so lucky.”
Kenan looks stricken but I don’t push him anymore. I hope the sniper victims, the family he talked to, and now my own story will slowly begin to crack through his resolve. These newfound feelings of fear need time to grow from vague, chaotic forms into solid thoughts and decision-making.
All I can do is try to spell out those thoughts for him.
“I think,” I say in a loud, clear voice, and he straightens up. “I think your adventure doesn’t have to end here.”
His eyes soften and I see gold circling his irises. For another moment, we stare at each other, and I finally realize that this boy with the old sweater and the disheveled brown hair who wears his heart on his sleeve is beautiful. Standing in the middle of this ravaged, torn city, he is beautiful and real.
I wonder what he’s thinking. If he’s continuing the sentence that I’m too shy to say. That he could find his Sheeta. Somehow his smile tells me he is.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, then?” he asks, his voice warm, like a cup of zhoorat tea. There’s no pink coloring his cheeks now, only a vast calm like we’re not on borrowed time but have eternity stretching in front of us.
“Yes, definitely,” I reply, smiling.
