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One day.
That was all he could haggle from Viper. He thinks it’s ridiculous how, even with all his efforts to negotiate, she stood firm on her decision. Apparently , no amount of information or bargaining or “I'll do your chores for a week” could convince her to give him any more than that. He might have even called her cruel, if he knew damn well that he didn’t specify why he needed this leave; Cypher just hoped to find himself on her good side that evening… Serves him right for thinking he’s won a place in her heart, he supposed. Still, he couldn't help but stew in his frustration as he stood in front of Viper’s office, because one day isn’t enough.
The ink-stained papers she'd given him crumple between his hands. For a moment, he considered going back in to beg some more—his ego is nothing compared to this, after all—but he doubts he’d get anything more than an unimpressed look. She'd already made herself clear: this is all she could give him. It's ‘the best she could do’.
Eventually, all he could do was relent; to sigh and shove the papers into his coat. He's done more with less, maybe he could make do with this.
-
His feet drag along the fading path, arms laden with bags full of unreceived gifts, as he makes his way between the quiet rows that stretch endlessly before him. From cosmetics and jewelry to their favourite sweets—does she still like them, he wonders, even after all this time?
The question makes him falter, nearly tripping over the dust kicked up by his own feet.
Hasn't it only been a few months? Is that enough for her tastes to change so drastically? He could picture it now (though he wished he couldn't), the smile of reproach plastered across her face, too polite to refuse his efforts, too patient to let him apologise for getting everything wrong, too kind to let him make up for it with even better gifts, too– ah.
In front of a tree, where the wind whispers its loudest, he stops. He doesn't have time to go back now. With a small breath of disappointment, he carefully places the bags by its burly roots and glances up at the canopy above him.
The canopy that was… Much thicker and wider than he remembers it being.
…Has it really been that long?
A beautiful array of greens unfamiliar to him wave from above; sunlight filters through the gaps between and bathes him in its gentle warmth. The wind that had been playing amongst the leaves momentarily wraps him in its cool breeze but none of it does anything to quell the ache settling in his chest.
“How silly of you, my prince.” His eyes flutter shut. The voice behind him was playful and soft, full of the same longing that he shares. “Always thinking… Worrying…” She laughs that same bright laugh he remembers from years ago. “How do you live, aziz?"
The breath that left his lungs shuddered. He searches her words for any contempt, any hatred for leaving her here for… Years? But he hears none. All there was were her words, carried to him by the gentle wind surrounding them. So, ever slowly, he turns. Facing her now, his hands itch to raise his mask above his head. It’s a simple courtesy, after all, to greet your beloved with an identity that’s your own. Yet, even as his fingers hook themselves underneath its hem, the mask doesn’t move. He can’t. Not now. He won’t let her see him like this.
So, with a bitter smile sweetened by the cotton obscuring it, Amir lowers himself to one knee and gently brushes a few leaves off her headstone.
“Good morning, Nora.”
The breeze that had brought him the remnants of her voice died down, leaving only the cemetary’s solemnity to accompany him. It's as if the world slowed down for them—to let them reunite. His hand moved methodically, brushing dirt and debris from the stone's surface with all the tenderness he couldn't give her in her final days. What he wouldn't do to be able to caress her face again.
As he shifted his weight, one of the bags toppled over with a dull thud beside him.
"Ah," he said, grateful for the interruption to his thoughts. “The shop we used to visit for our Saturday tea—they, eh, started selling chebakia recently.” The words tumbled out of his lips before he could even think, filling the silence with familiar conversation. He reached for the fallen bag and carefully extracted a small box from inside.
“Shall we try them?”
-
It’s not long before the gifts he’d brought were laid carefully on the grass around her. Snacks, clothes, perfume refills, and the smallest of trinkets—they were all arranged meticulously so that she could see them.
Every box had been opened and held up to her before being resealed and stacked on either side of her, each bag loosened to show her its contents before being grouped up in front of her. Many brought back pleasant memories, “this one reminded me of that weekend in Marrakech, remember? When we tried to taste one of every sweet in the market.” Though, some left him struggling for words.
A red box in particular lays open in front of her grave, the chebakia within shining a beautiful golden brown.
Amir sits beside the array of items, carefully folding each cotton bag into neat squares as he speaks to her. He tries not to think of the fact that these will inevitably disappear in about a day—they always do. Perhaps it'd been Nora’s will, for people to take them as they pleased; she’d always been much kinder than he was. He wished they wouldn’t, but who was he to go against his beloved’s wish?
“I know you don't like my line of work, but I've been picked up by quite an organisation.” He paused, then looked up in thought. “I think you'd approve of them, habibti. They never let me work in peace unless I join them for mealtimes.” He chuckles, brief and tender and warm . A breeze brushes past, like she'd been laughing with him.
It's risky, he knows, to be talking about the protocol out in the open like this; he could be compromising the organisation’s security as he speaks, but he couldn't help it. He wants her to know about them.
So he tells her about how, during his early days with the protocol, a photo of her had slipped from his pocket—how he’d panicked when another agent picked it up for him. A small but fond smile sneaks onto his face as he speaks about how, a few days after the incident, that same agent had hesitantly given him a locket to place her photo in. He pulls it out of his pocket, dangling it in front of her as if to prove the story true. He doesn’t open it. He can’t bear to.
He tells her about all of the things he had to learn from other agents, how they had to walk him through even the most basic chores, the frustration and embarrassment that came with learning such skills so late into his life and how grateful he is that she’d always made sure he wouldn’t have to do any of it on his own. “I’m still not trusted in the kitchen,” He sighs rather woefully. “Not even after I told them you’d at least let me crack the eggs…”
He tells her about the time he spent with younger agents and how they make him think of the life their daughter could've lived if she were given the chance. How some have approached him for advice on planning a successful date and how the look of dread on their faces turned into amusement when he mentions his own disastrous attempts. How he treats a few of them to cafes and restaurants every once in a while and how rambunctious each of them could get.
He tells her about the questions he’d sometimes get about her when her name slips from his lips; the life that he lived, the things they did together. He admits how tempted he'd been to tell them about every morning, every meal, every date, how his facade would be just that much closer to breaking every time she’s mentioned.
He tells her how much he loves her, how much he thinks about her, how much he would've talked about how amazing she was if he weren't so terrified that it'd somehow put her in any more danger.
It's not long before he falls quiet, their wedding ring now rolling over his fingers again, and again, and again.
If he’d sent her letters more often, if he let her write back, if he came to visit even just once every 6 months, would he be feeling the same way he is now? Guilty and aching in a way he never has before; yearning for the life that his sacrifice took away from him. They could've kept the peaceful life they had. Or, really, he could've kept the peaceful life they had. He's sure she at least had the privilege of enjoying hers… Right?
His mind tortures him with images of what her final years could've been like without him. How many afternoons did she have to spend on her own? How many times had she gone on with their routine, fixing herself a cup of tea and sitting herself down in the living room only to find the emptiness of the room too overwhelming? How many times had she woken up to an empty house shrouded in darkness? Did she keep going to that park they liked? Visiting the same shops they used to? Watching the same telenovelas he never understood?
If he'd stayed, how many days could they have kept spending together?
The thought hits him like a physical blow. The cemetery’s silence turned from solemn to deafening. The gentle breeze that had comforted him throughout his visit vanished. All that’s left was Amir, trapped in a moment he could contemplate forever—but it won’t bring her back. Nothing could ever bring her or the time they’d lost back. Nothing he does would ever make up for the mistakes he’s made in the past.
“Nora.” He murmurs. He can’t bring himself to look at her headstone, eyes locked on the ring in his trembling palm. “I miss you.”
The wind picks up again, just barely—gentle enough for most people to miss it. But he feels it. It caresses his cheek through the cotton fabric of his mask like he remembers her fingers have before. He closes his palm around the ring and brings it up to his chest with a bow of his head.
“One day,” he whispers, voice breaking with emotion. “It’ll never be enough. But I’ll be back—I promise.” One that he won’t break this time, he thinks, but it’s left unsaid. After a brief pause, he slowly rises, hesitant to leave. “Please, wait for me again, hayati.”
As he walks away, leaving the carefully arranged gifts behind, something at the base of the tree catches his eye.
A wildflower he hadn’t noticed before, small and unassuming, in the exact shade of orange that she’d always loved.