Chapter Text
𝑀𝜎𝘩𝛼𝑚𝑚𝜀𝜕 𝛥𝜈𝜕𝜎𝑙
After a long chat and some tea my acquaintance Sharona left, silence settled back into the room, as it did every day.
It wasn't an awkward or empty silence. It was one that knew how to wait. The kind of silence that forms in places where people enter with doubts, leave a piece of themselves… and leave a little lighter.
I sat back down on the cushions and poured myself some black tea. The water was still hot. I placed a handful of sunflower seeds on the small metal plate and picked one up, cracking the shell between my teeth with an automatic gesture.
Bitter tea.
Salty everything else.
A simple balance, learned over the years.
I didn't think about the young woman Sharona brought who left crying anymore.
Not because I didn't care, but because this job taught me long ago that if you cling to every story, you end up stuck. People come, leave something… and move on.
I, too, had to learn to move on with mine.
I was orphaned too young, both of my parents died prematurely. There was no time for prolonged mourning, only for survival. Before my mother died, she passed on to me her knowledge of divination: the cards, the palms, the subtle signs that others ignore. Thanks to that, I was able to earn a living.
I grew up in one of Cairo's most forgotten neighborhoods, a place many would call a dump. There was no law, only necessity. There, I saw how misery drove people to harm, to steal, to sink down paths of no return. Many of those who grew up with me ended up there.
Not me.
Because I remembered my parents. I remembered that they died defending others, and that idea became a beacon. Something simple yet unwavering. Besides, my Stand allowed me to protect myself when necessary. I didn't emerge unscathed from everything… but I came out whole.
Stories happen. You learn to bear them without letting them break you.
The first customer of the day was an elderly merchant. His hands were rough, and his voice was weary. He wanted to know if his son would be returning soon from Libya , where he had gone to work at the port. I spoke to him of patience, of paths still being forged. The letters showed no danger, only delay. He left more at ease than when he had arrived.
Then a young woman came in, nervous, with rings on every finger. She asked about love. They always ask about love.
I took her delicate hand and gave her a glimmer of hope. I studied the heart line: long, slightly curved, with a fork at the end.
إنتِ بتحسي بعمق — بس بتتعلمي تحمي نفسك متأخر شوية. إنتِ بتدي_ الأول، وبعدين بتترددي. ده هيتغير، فما تقلقيش
(—you feel deeply— I explained—but you learn to protect yourself too late. You give first, then hesitate. That will change, so don’t worry.—)
It wasn't a promise, just an honest reading. Sometimes that's enough.
Between clients, I sipped tea and watched the light shift in the room. The sun shone at an angle, illuminating the dust particles suspended in the air. Below, the market was still bustling: voices, footsteps, laughter, arguments over prices.
At midday, I ate something simple that I got from the vendors: Koshary. Nothing special. Just enough.
In the afternoon, two more readings arrived.
One short.
One long.
One full of hurried questions.
The other, of silences that spoke louder than words.
As dusk fell, I closed the curtains completely for privacy and turned on a small lamp. The tea was cold, so I made another. The sunflower seeds were almost gone.
The last customer left, thanking me quietly.
I closed the shop door and stood for a moment, listening. The market noise had changed; at night it seemed even more alive, as if the city breathed differently.
It had been an ordinary day.
Just one of many.
I climbed the stairs calmly, thinking about dinner, about Zyxael—who was probably already asleep in her small room—about the next day.
“Time passes without so much as a word or greeting.” That's a phrase in the Arabian world.
Only that, without realizing it, I had stored something different that day.
And that… I would understand later.
The sky had already begun to darken when I returned to the old building, after leaving that commercial labyrinth that captivates you from the moment you step inside.
The stairs creaked as always under my feet, and the smell of food from a neighboring apartment hung in the air. Nothing out of the ordinary. Too ordinary.
I opened the apartment door, expecting to hear movement: small footsteps, some clumsy noise, any familiar sign.
There was nothing.
The place was exactly as I had left it that morning. The ceramic cups were still on the low table, the blanket imperfectly folded, the window ajar with the mosquito netting letting in the cool evening air, but;
Zyxael wasn't there.
I calmly put my things down. I learned years ago that haste clouds judgment.
I looked first at the corner where she used to sit with her stuffed walrus, the one I gave her during her first days in Cairo. Then there was the small shelf where she kept what she considered important depending on the day: food, seemingly worthless objects, little treasures no one else would understand. That habit came from the place she had escaped. There, hiding food was a way to survive. At that hour, the shelf was empty.
It wasn't the first time she'd been gone so long. Sometimes she stopped to look at stalls, other times she followed sounds or smells. With her remaining eye, the world appeared fragmented, and yet she still wanted to explore everything.
The market was already a difficult place for any child. For her, with a recent spinal operation, it was even more so.
I poured tea. I didn't drink it.
I went to the window and looked out at the street. The lights came on one by one, and the shadows lengthened the figures of the passersby. The bustle changed in tone: fewer voices, more weariness.
I rested a hand on the window frame.
"كان المفروض تكوني هنا دلوقتي،”
(—You should be here by now—)
That's when;
—Allahu Akbar!—
The muezzin's voice rose from the nearby mosque, deep, clear, spreading across the rooftops and streets like an ancient tide. Maghrib. The call of dusk, the maghrib.
I closed my eyes for a moment.
Worry pulled at me, urgent, insistent. But the call was clear. It cannot be ignored. Not if one wants to remain who one claims to be.
I turned away from the window.
I performed wudu silently, with precise, automatic movements: hands, face, arms, head, feet. The water was cold, but it kept me grounded. Present. Alive.
I spread out the prayer mat and prayed.
It wasn't a long prayer. It was proper. Respectful. But my mind wasn't still. In every movement, in every word, her image crept in: small, alone, walking among people who don't always watch where they're going.
When I finished, I sat for another second, my hands on my thighs.
“Protect her,” I murmured. “And give me clarity.”
I stood.
I reached for the old sleeveless jacket. The air around me warmed slightly, a reflection of what it contained. Magician’s Red responded to my tension before I even asked: a burning, impatient presence, ready to defend… or destroy. I forced it back.
Not now.
I opened the door and walked purposefully down the stairs.
I felt that familiar tug in my chest. It wasn’t fear yet. It was worry. I know it well: the kind that warns, not the kind that paralyzes.
She didn’t return before nightfall, I would go looking for her. Not because I distrusted her,
but because the world isn’t always kind to what it doesn’t understand.
Night finally fell.
I closed the door behind me and went downstairs, as night time Cairo began to unfold.
And this time, I knew it wouldn’t be just any search.
.ᐣ.ᐣ.ᐣ
No one noticed him when he entered the market.
Not because he was invisible, but because he walked as if the world already knew him and he didn't need to announce himself. A dark green cloak fell from his shoulders, brushing the dusty ground—heavy, ancient, too thick for the climate. Beneath it, there was nothing else. His naked body sought neither modesty nor provocation; it simply existed, hidden by habit, not shame.
He moved slowly through the streets of sand and stone, among wooden stalls, hanging fabrics, and voices haggling over prices with weary enthusiasm. Cairo unfolded before him like a lingering memory: different in details, identical in essence. He had walked through cities like this for longer than most could comprehend.
Then he saw her.
A girl very short for her age, with bright red hair like a spark out of place among the ochre tones of the market. She was missing an eye. The other watched with an almost painful intensity. She carried a bag far too large for her: oranges pressed tightly together, heavy, and glistening.
The girl didn't move.
She watched.
In front of her, a spice stall displayed mounds of impossible colors: deep reds, earthy yellows, muted greens, seeds, dried herbs, sweets hardened by sugar and the sun. Among them, something caught her eye. Something small. Rectangular. Shiny.
Simsemeya.
The man stopped a few steps away. He didn't bow his head. He didn't smile. He just watched.
He recognized that look.
It wasn't just hunger. It was suppressed desire. The memory of a taste, a texture, something he wasn't allowed to ask for.
Without a word, he approached the vendor.
The vendor looked up, ready to haggle… and remained silent. Something about this customer—his posture, his excessive calm, the voice that hadn't yet spoken—disarmed him before he even began.
“بس كده”
(—That’s it— the man finally said.)
His accent was strange. Polished. The words came out with a soft, almost gentle musicality, as if each syllable had been practiced for decades.
He paid without arguing.
When he reached out to take the sweet, the cloak opened just enough.
For an instant—only one—a limb was visible that didn’t belong to the market or to time: a long hand, with pale skin, too pale, adorned with gold bracelets, and long, manicured nails. It didn’t tremble. It didn’t hesitate. It was a hand that had held many things… and had let go of them all.
The merchant swallowed.
The man had already turned around.
He approached the girl silently. His shadow covered her for a second. She looked up.
He bent down just enough to be at her eye level. He didn’t intrude. He didn’t touch. He extended the sweet wrapped in paper, with a slow, almost ceremonial gesture.
"ده ليكي يا أمورة”
(—For you little sweetheart— he said.)
The voice was warm. Charming. It demanded nothing in return.
The market continued to breathe around them, oblivious to the brief moment suspended between them.
𝑍𝜑𝜘𝛼𝜀𝑙 𝑀𝜀𝑔𝛼𝑙𝜎𝜌𝑟𝜀𝜌ē𝑠…
Colors.
That's what I saw.
I didn't know their names, only that there were many:
Red that stings my nose.
Yellow that looks like dust.
Green things that smell strange.
I clutched the bag of oranges the giant woman had given me earlier to my chest because they were heavy and I didn't want them to fall. Things fall when you don't take care of them.
Then the light went out.
I raised my head.
The figure was very tall.
Too tall to be a normal person.
A giant again.
I was scared. My body moved on its own and I took a step back. I thought about running. I always think about running first.
The giant had a long, dark cloak, as if night itself had put on clothes. didn't shout. didn't touch me. That was strange. Giants almost always make noise.
I looked at him with my good eye. The other one doesn't work, so I use this one for everything.
Then I only saw their hand. Because nothing else was visible
There was food.
Not bad food. Not stale bread.
Something sweet. Something that glittered a little. It smelled good. It smelled like sticky things and seeds.
Simsemeya...the thing I wanted to buy earlier but couldn't.
My fear froze. Like when you see something dangerous but beautiful at the same time.
"ده ليكي يا أمورة”
(—For you little sweetheart— the giant said.)
His voice wasn't mean. It didn't sound like the voices that hurt. It was soft. Like when someone speaks quietly so they don't break things.
I moved a little closer. Just a little.
It was the second time a giant had helped me.
There are giants of many sizes. Some yell at you. Others lead you by the hand. I still didn't know what kind this one was.
I stretched out my hand slowly, ready to drop the bag and run if anything happened. My fingers touched the paper. It didn't hurt. Nothing bad happened.
I took the candy.
I backed away quickly, like a small cat. I looked at the candy. I smelled it. A small smile crept across my face.
When I looked at the giant again, he was already leaving.
I followed him with my remaining eye until his dark green cloak disappeared among the people and the colors.
I pressed the candy to my chest.
Maybe the world isn't all bad.
Maybe there are good giants too.
I went to sit on the banks of the Nile and started eating.
The seeds crunched.
The temperature changed.
It was fast.
It was like when the sun suddenly beats down and you don't know why. The market was still the same, people were talking, the colors were still there… but something was different.
It was hot.
Burning hot.
I raised my head and looked around with my good eye. I didn't see fire. I didn't see anything strange. But the air felt heavy, as if it were angry.
Something invisible was moving nearby.
Something big.
Something burning.
Then someone grabbed my shoulder.
Hard.
I let out a short scream, like a small animal. The candy almost fell from my hand. I felt a burning sensation, as if I'd been touched with something hot. It burned me a little. Not much, but enough to hurt.
Behind him, for a very short second, I saw something red.
It wasn't a person.
It wasn't normal fire.
It was like a bird made of heat, with glowing eyes and wings that didn't flap, they just stood there, watching.
It disappeared instantly.
But a call appeared
The sound arrived before night had fully fallen.
It wasn't like the people. It wasn't like the vendors. It wasn't like the animals.
It was large.
It came from above… or from far away… or from everywhere at once. It slipped between the houses, between the fabrics, between the colors. It vibrated in my chest.
I didn't know what it was saying. But I knew it wasn't to shout. It was to call.
I raised my head involuntarily.
The sky was orange and purple, like when day slowly breaks. The lights began to turn on, one by one, like tired eyes.
The sound continued. Long. Round. Calm.
I stood still.
When sounds are like that, you don't run. You listen.
I had heard that before. Not always. Sometimes. Avdol would stand still when he passed by. He washed his hands and face and feet carefully, as if the water were important. Then he moved strangely, slowly, seriously. He didn't speak.
I simply watched him, since I wasn't speaking.
I didn't know how. No one had taught me. The sound stopped, and after a while, the market began to breathe again.
"Zyxael!" The voice was familiar.
That stopped me.
I turned my head quickly. It was him. The kind giant. The one who smells of tea and smoke. The one who walks slowly and doesn't shout.
Avdol…Hamoudi
But his face was different. Tense. His brows furrowed. His eyes… worried, but also angry. Not with me. With something else.
He released my shoulder instantly.
“اسف يا امورتي، – مقصودش… ماكانش لازم…”
(—I'm sorry,— he said quickly, lowering his hand as if he'd been burned too. —I didn't mean to… I shouldn't have— The heat dropped suddenly, like when someone puts out a flame.)
The air was air again.
Inside me, something stirred.
Not outside.
Inside.
I felt Body Company awaken, stretching like when you open your arms after sleeping. My fingers tingled. My bones creaked softly. I could feel the bodies around me, distant, close… too many. I clenched my fists involuntarily.
I didn't like it.
He crouched down in front of me, at my eye level.
"وجعتك؟”
(—Did it hurt?— he asked, more slowly, checking on me.)
I rubbed my shoulder. It stung, but it was already subsiding. I nodded slightly. Body Company calmed down around me, as if it understood.
"مقصودش أخوفك يا حبيبتي، — ضيعت السيطرة لحظة بس. مش هيحصل كده تاني، بوعدك.”
(—I didn't mean to scare you,— he continued. —I lost control for a second. It won't happen again.— I didn't understand everything. But he looked sad? )
But his voice wasn't heated anymore.
I looked at him carefully. I still had the candy in my hand. I hadn't taken it away. That was important.
"—كنت خايف يكون حصللك حاجة،”
(—I thought something had happened to you,— he said. —I was looking for you.—)
The market sounded normal again. The air wasn't so heavy anymore. Only the slight warmth on my shoulder remained… and that internal tingling, as if my body knew something dangerous had been nearby.
Avdol took a deep breath, like adults do when they realize they've done something wrong. His shoulders slumped. The redness subsided.
“سامحيني”
"أوقات برده بعمل حاجة قبل ما أفكر. هتعلم أحسن المرة الجاية.–”
(—Forgive me,— he repeated. —Sometimes... I react before I think. I need to learn better.— I didn't say anything. I just nodded again. He looked at the candy in my hand. Then at my face. Then at the market.)
"يلا نروح البيت،
—فات الوقت، وشوفتك جبتِ كل الحاجات الجميلة دي النهاردة.–”
(—Let's go home,— he said. —It's late, and I see you got quite a haul today.— I stood up slowly. My shoulder barely hurts anymore. Body Company went back to sleep inside me, curling up like a long, thin animal. I put the candy in my pocket, safe and sound. I walked beside him while he took the oranges with his big warm hand. The kind giant was still a giant.)
But now I knew two things:
that even giants can make mistakes...
and that fire doesn't always burn on purpose.
𝑀𝜑𝑟𝜄𝛼𝑚 𝑀𝜎𝑟𝜀𝑙
Myriam had been walking for a while.
Too long.
The market had been behind her for several minutes, but the streets were still a labyrinth. Every turn seemed right until it wasn't.
The noise changed, the people changed, the smells too.
“Weona..." she muttered to herself, running a hand over her face. “¿Cómo se te ocurre separarte?”
( “Stupid”, “How could you even think of separating?”)
It wasn't the first time she'd said that to herself. It probably wouldn't be the last.
She stopped for a moment, resting her hands on her knees. She took a deep breath. She was tired, her feet ached, and she was in a bad mood, though she couldn't tell if it was the heat, the language barrier, or her own habit of getting herself into trouble.
—Te juro que si salgo viva de esta, no me separo nunca más de nadie — she promised herself, without much faith.
( "I swear, if I get out of this alive, I'll never separate from anyone again" )
That's when she saw it.
A payphone.
Old, scratched, with a phone booth that looked like it had seen too many stories and too few cleanings. Myriam stared at it as if it were a modern miracle planted in the middle of chaos.
—Gracias, universo—she said softly. —Era hora.—
("Thank you, universe," "It was about time.")
She reached into her purse, checked the coins, counted, recounted. It was enough. Barely, but it was enough.
She dialed the number carefully, as if the keys might break.
With her tongue lolling out, she concentrated while she opened her small leather notebook; One dial. Another. Another.
And then.
—¿Alóóóö?—
("Helloooo?")
—Flaca… Soy yo— I leaned my head against the glass.
("Skinny… It's me." )
—Mimi?!—
The voice traveled across continents. Myriam closed her eyes instantly. Her chest tightened, but she smiled anyway.
—Sí, soy yo hermana.— she said, laughing softly.
("Yes, it's me, sis”)
—¡No te creo! ¿Dónde estás? ¿Sigues viva? Mamá dijo que estabas en no sé qué parte del mundo—
("I don't believe you! Where are you?" Are you still alive? Mom said you were somewhere in the world”)
—En El Cairo —I replied —. Perdida, cansada y odiándome un poco, pero viva.—
(“In Cairo” , “ Lost, tired, and kind of hating myself, but alive.”)
I heard laughter on the other end of the line. That laughter I always known.
—Yaaa, ¿Y cómo es allá?— Myriam hears footsteps and other women murmuring, probably her younger sister and mother.
(“Yeah, and what's it like there?”)
"Ask her if she's seen any camels yet."
"Does she have a job yet? Make sure she eats well, because when this skinny girl left she already looked malnourished."
—Laura, luego me pasas a mamá y a la chanchita para aclarar dudas —
(“Laura, then put Mom and the little piggy on so we can clear things up”)
—Yaa está bien—she laughed and lowered her voice as if she were telling a secret—. Oye, loca... Te estoy intentando mandar un regalo de Navidad… a ver si te llega.—
(“Okaay” “Hey, crazy one... I'm trying to send you a Christmas present... Let's see if it arrives.”)
Myriam raised an eyebrow, intrigued. —¿Un regalo? ¿A mí? Eso suena sospechoso.—
(“A present? For me? That sounds suspicious.”)
—No me creas nada todavía —her sister continued.— Solo te voy a decir una cosa.—
(Dramatic pause.)
—Charly García.—
(“Don't believe anything I say yet,” “I'm just going to tell you one thing.” “Charly García.”)
The world stopped for a second.
—¿Qué?— Myriam said, incredulous. — Charly García? ¿Mi Charly García?—
(“What?” “Charly García? My Charly García?”)
—El mismo —Laura replied, laughing.— Celos permitidos. No te digo más.—
(“The one and only,” “Jealousy is allowed. I won't say any more.”)
Myriam covered her mouth with her free hand to stifle a scream.
—Eres una mala persona —she said, half laughing, half emotional.— Una pésima hermana.—
(“You're a bad person,” “A terrible sister.”)
—Pero me amas —the voice on the other end replied.— Y feliz Navidad adelantada, Mimi. Mira que preferiste irte justo a fin de año al otro lado del mundo...oye y viste alguna momia?—
(“But you love me,” “And Merry Christmas in advance, Mimi. Imagine, you chose to go to the other side of the world right at the end of the year...hey, did you see any mummies?”)
Myriam rested her forehead against the cold glass of the phone booth.
—Feliz navidad… Y no— she repeated, more softly.
(“Merry Christmas…And no”)
After that brief chat with her older sister, her mother picked up the phone, leading to a longer, more mature conversation in which Myriam tried to calm her mother by assuring her that she was fine, with a roof over her head, food, friends, and that someone was looking for a stable job. without revealing the truth of a big failure in her life.
When she hung up, she stood there for a few seconds, staring at the street.
She was still lost. Still far away. Still feeling a bit foolish.
But for the second time that day,
she didn't feel alone.
Myriam was still inside the phone booth when she heard it.
At first, she thought it was music.
A long, sustained voice, stretching through the air like an invisible thread. It didn't come from just one place, but from several at once, overlapping. Deep, melodic, strange. She couldn't understand the words, but there was something about the rhythm that sent shivers down her spine.
She frowned.
Outside, the street began to change.
Not suddenly. Not like when something bad happens.
More like… like when everything conspires without warning. Some people lowered their voices. Others stopped completely. A couple of shopkeepers started closing their metal shutters halfway down. Others simply left. Myriam hung up the phone slowly and stood still, listening.
—¿Qué pasa?— she murmured.
("What's up…?" )
The voice continued to float over the streets, clear and deep. It wasn't rushed. She didn't seem to be demanding anything, and yet everyone seemed to be listening to her.
She stepped out of the booth and stood there, waiting for something else to happen. She didn't know what, but felt that interrupting this moment would be… impolite, even though she didn't know why.
A few seconds passed.
Then a minute.
The remaining people walked calmly, unhurriedly, as if time had slowed down a bit.
Myriam moved to the side and saw a man leaning against a wall, looking around with the same "I'm not from here" expression she must have had. Simple clothes, a worn backpack, an accent that didn't sound local when he sighed.
—Hey…— she said, approaching him. —Excuse me, do you know what's going on?—
The man looked at her, relieved that someone else was asking. —Yes,— he replied. —It's the call to prayer. The adhan.—
Myriam blinked. —The prayer?—
"Ajá…is Maghrib time,” he explained. —Right when it starts to get dark.— He looked around again.
—That's why some people leave, others close for a while. It's not mandatory for everyone, but many stop what they're doing.— Myriam looked up. The voice was still there, softer now, but just as present.
—It sounds… nice,— she admitted. —I didn't understand anything, but… nice.—
The man smiled. —That's what many people say.— She nodded slowly.
—Thank you,— she said. —I thought something serious was happening.—
—No,— he replied. —It's just… the time.— Myriam remained still for a moment longer, listening as the voice gradually faded, as the street regained its rhythm.
When everything started moving again, she took a deep breath.
Cairo was still strange.
But not so much anymore.
I kept walking without a clear destination, letting my feet decide for me. The sky was dark, but not black; it had those deep blue tones that seem to hold what the day hadn't managed to say. The lights were coming on little by little, yellow, warm, reflecting off the worn walls and the uneven ground.
The air was fresher. It did me good.
Without realizing it, I reached the river.
I sat on a stone bank, hugging my legs, watching the Nile flow slowly, heavily, anciently. The water reflected fragmented lights, early stars, shadows of boats passing by unhurriedly. The sound was different from that of the market: constant, deep, as if it were breathing on its own.
There were people nearby, but no one was intruding on anyone else. Families talking in hushed tones, couples sitting silently without holding hands, a child throwing stones into the water. A vendor passed by offering something to drink? But I didn't understand him.
No one shouted.
I sighed.
thought about Chile.
In December, during the holidays.
At the crowded tables, the noise, the loud music, the pointless arguments. My mom organizing everything, my sisters fighting and laughing at the same time. I thought about how far removed I was from all that now.
I didn't cry. Why should I? I had chosen this path. Maybe it seemed dark now, but that could change. Life isn't straight, it never has been. It has its ups and downs, its strange detours. And along those paths, you meet new people, see different places, experience colors, smells, textures, emotions… things that didn't exist before.
I only felt that quiet, persistent knot that appears when you miss someone without wanting to say it out loud.
Then I looked along the riverbank.
At a distance, I saw a tall man walking with a little girl. I couldn't make out their faces clearly, only their silhouettes: he, upright, with confident steps; she, short, with red hair.
I squinted.
The man reminded me of the fortune teller who had read my palm. Not because of his face, but because of the way he moved, that dense calm that seemed to surround him.
And the girl…
The girl looked like the little girl with the oranges.
Maybe it wasn't her. Maybe it was. Cairo was full of children. But even so, the image lingered in my mind longer than it should have.
I saw them stop. He leaned down slightly, as if speaking to her in a low voice. The girl raised her head, nodded, and then they continued walking until they disappeared into the light and shadows.
Nothing more.
A small scene.
Almost nothing.
I looked away, feeling a little foolish for having watched so much. I didn't want to seem like a stalker or someone who was missing a part of her brain.
I looked back at the river, at the slow movement of the water.
thought that this place was full of stories that only brushed against each other. People who crossed paths without knowing it. Fleeting moments that, for no clear reason, kept swirling in my head.
I got up slowly, ready to return to my old hostel room.
Without knowing that those two silhouettes I had
seen from afar weren't just part of the landscape.
That they weren't fleeting memories.
That they weren't coincidences.
I didn't know yet.