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You don’t remember coming here.
Beneath your feet, the soft earth felt undisturbed. Leafy vines curled into paths that seemed to stretch on forever, and as though time had paused indefinitely at dusk, a gold and violet sky blurred the edge of the world into a dream-picture haze.
A breath of warm air brushed your skin, not unpleasantly so but still, it buzzed with something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.
There was no doubt this was somewhere you had never visited, yet you do not question the presence of that bountiful, fruit-bearing tree behind you. Nor do you question the stone bench where you sat, which was dotted with patches of orange light from a sun you could not see.
In its brief passing, the wind carried the rustling of leaves and the distant laughter of unseen children.
Somehow, even in its unfamiliarity, everything felt exactly as it should be.
“Seems like your mind’s wandering, my dear,” a sudden voice broke the quiet.
You turned your head, surprised to find an elderly woman sitting beside you with her hands folded neatly in her lap.
How long had she been here?
Better yet, how long have you been here?
The woman regarded you with eyes that held a plethora of stories, and her hair, silver with age, was pulled back into a simple style. She had an air of wisdom about her that only came with time and a life well-lived.
You couldn't decipher the ease you felt in her presence. It was like you’d known for her much longer than the mere moments you just shared. You should’ve asked where you were, who she was, what this place was. But instead…
“The wedding…” you realised, belatedly, that you were confiding in a stranger. She hadn’t asked, hadn’t mentioned anything, and yet for some reason, it seemed the only thing worth saying. “The wedding is in a week.”
The woman remained neutral, waiting, listening.
“And I…” you frowned as you collected your thoughts. “There’s still so much to do. So many people to please. Sometimes I think about canceling everything and running away with him. I think he feels the same.”
You spoke of your worries so effortlessly, that the woman could only nod as if she was meant to hear them.
“Ah,” she hummed, you could feel her searching for something inside of you. “So you are the one.”
“The one?”
A deep smile had settled on her face as she chuckled, “The one marrying my grandson.”
You lost sense of everything.
Now that you looked closer, you saw the resemblance. The sharp cut of her eyes, the peak of her nose, her iron glare which was softened by her warm complexion.
Pieces of Alhaitham were etched into her like scattered ink on an old page.
“You’re his… grandmother.”
She nodded again, and you felt your heart beat faster and faster. There was no coming out of this conversation unscathed, not when your fingers began to fiddle like that.
Alhaitham spoke about his family sparingly but only as an acknowledgement for the past rather than a wound to be reopened. You knew that both of his parents were scholars who died in a tragic accident when he was young and that his grandmother was the one who raised him during the bulk of his pre-adolescence.
Said grandmother watched you carefully as she continued to smile, “It’s good to finally meet you.”
“It’s an honour,” you said softly.
She waved a hand, amused but appreciative of your good manners. “No need for formalities, my dear. I just wanted to see the person who managed to keep up with that boy.”
“He’d say it the other way around,” you began to chuckle. It was refreshing to have someone else tease him so fondly. If only Alhaitham was present to hear his grandmother. Your chest stopped fluttering. His grandmother.
Why were you with his grandmother?
“Of course he would,” she replied back, shaking her head. “That child was as brilliant and stubborn as his parents. If not more. I used to say that one day, he’d argue with the sky about whether it was blue.”
You couldn’t help but grin, “He still would.”
A hearty laugh came tumbling out of her like she was elated to know her grandson was still the grandson she knew, “My dear, may I share a few stories with you—”
“Please,” you accidentally interrupted.
Immediately, you flashed her an apologetic look but she understood the excitement. Some skeletons would remain forever in the closet if Alhaitham ever deemed them unworthy to share.
“Very well.”
“Did you know,” her voice suddenly dipped into nostalgia, "When Alhaitham was a child, he would sit in my study for hours, reading books far beyond his years? Whenever he discovered something new, he would come to me, eyes alight with curiosity. He never sought praise. He simply wanted to share what he had learned.”
You could picture it so clearly.
Alhaitham, as a boy, sitting beside her with his little hands gripping a book, his teal eyes burning with all the wisdom a child could hold. You smiled as though the fond memory were yours. Then you sighed, “It seems he hasn’t changed at all. He still does that, too. Even now when he finds a particularly interesting theory or text, he’ll tell me about it. Even if I don’t quite follow”
Her eyes twinkled as she let out a softer laugh, “That is how he loves.”
You believed it.
“Is… it true you were a scholar as well?”
That fact has always piqued your interest.
“Correct,” she nodded but did not elaborate immediately. Instead, she tilted her head and studied you. “Tell me about yourself. Who are you, to have earned Alhaitham’s regard?”
Caught off guard, you found yourself nervously unfolding everything. You spoke of your life, of your time in the Akademiya, of how you had met Alhaitham. His grandmother listened attentively, occasionally chiming in with her Ooo’s and Ahh’s like a young girl indulging in gossip for the first time.
“You must be quite remarkable,” she finally said. The praise made you feel a type of shyness you hadn’t felt since you were also a child yourself.
She paused before adding, “I was a member of Kshahrewar, long ago. Though my specialty lay in engineering, I always admired the tenacity of those who pursued pure knowledge. It seems he inherited that hunger. I see it in the way you speak of him.”
“He’s certainly strong-willed but people tend to forget he shows his kindness in his own way. He wears his heart on his sleeve more than most people know,” your eyebrows perked, “I suppose that’s why I’m marrying him!”
Marrying. Marrying. Marrying. The reality of it rattled and reverbed in your head.
For the first time, her expression shifted to surprise before it melted into something serene and tender. Something prouder.
“You remind me of his mother.”
You wondered how you appeared to her when she said that because you failed to notice the tears that came like the rush of tide. “In what way?” You struggled to ask.
“She had the same light in her eyes when she spoke of his father,” she said, “And the same warmth when she looked at her son. When she loved you, her smile always beckoned you.”
A cork felt like it was lodged deep in your throat when you tried to speak, “She sounds…”
Wonderful, was what you were meant to say but her remark from two seconds ago still left you blundering and muted. You had never known his mother, Alhaitham barely knew his mother, so you couldn’t even fathom carrying a part of her with you.
His grandmother’s gaze lingered on you before she asked with utmost intention, not expecting you to finish your sentence, “What brings you light? What do you love?”
An odd question but it brought you back to her, “You mean about him?”
“No no,” she said, wiggling a finger at you, “About yourself.”
You blinked.
So much of your life these past weeks has been focused on your wedding and your future with Alhaitham. While it was joyful, overwhelming, beautiful, all of the above—somewhere in the midst of it all, you hadn’t stopped to ask yourself this.
“I…” You thought for a moment, then smiled when the answer came to you. “I love learning. Not just from books, but from people. From Alhaitham, from those around me. I love how it changes us—connects us. And I love life because I still have so much to discover from it.”
Taking everything into consideration, his grandmother mused, “Good. You’ll be a fine match for him.”
A breeze stirred the air, carrying the scent of something far away, and her expression turned thoughtful, “You know, I once left him a message in one of his books.”
Aware of the message she spoke of, you stiffened.
Whenever he allowed, you had read those words over and over, traced them with careful fingers, and wondered about the woman who had written them. What kind of person was she? What had she seen in him, in the world, to leave behind such a wish?
“May my child Alhaitham lead a peaceful life—”
Yes, it sounded surreal when it finally came paired with a voice.
But then, she reached for your hand. Her grip was warm, comfortable, achingly real. Not physically but the kind of real that imprinted itself onto the very fabric of life.
“—with you by his side.”
The message drifted beyond the confines of ink on a page, stepped out of the past and into the limelight of the present, spoken into existence just for you.
That part had never been written.
That part belonged to you.
“Take care of him,” she advised you kindly, though you needn’t a reminder, “And let him take care of you, too. Peace isn’t something that should be carried alone.”
“I will,” you beamed in return.
When you said that, it occurred to you the realm around you was beginning to fade into a colourless void. The sky paled into nothingness. The warmth in the air waned into a ghostly chill.
His grandmother exhaled, almost a sigh.
You tried to hold onto the moment, “Will I see you again?”
“The world is a strange place,” she said. “Maybe you will. Maybe he will.”
A final gust of wind swept through, and the last thing you remembered was her wide and true smile.
Then, complete darkness.
Morning light bled through the curtains once you woke. The scent of crisp air and traces of coffee filled your senses as you slowly adjusted to reality. For a moment, the fog of sleep still clung to you, until you felt the bed dip beside you.
Rolling over, you found Alhaitham lying next to you with one arm propped behind his head, a book resting on his bare chest. He wasn’t reading, though. His eyes, sharp even in their drowsy state, were waiting for yours to meet them.
“You were mumbling in your sleep,” he remarked, voice still hoarse from the criminal hour of the morning. “Something about our wedding and my grandmother.”
You swallowed thickly. The memory of her laughter, her words, her warmth—everything had felt so tangible. You hesitated, your fingers curling against the sheets as you struggled to make sense of it all.
“It was… a dream.” Though it sounded more like you were trying to convince yourself. Your words wavered as if saying them aloud would make them true.
Alhaitham regarded your answer for some time before pursing his lips, closing his book with a small thud. “Was it?”
You looked at him then, really looked, and for the briefest moment, you swore—swore you could see it in his eyes.
A flicker of recognition.
Perhaps he had seen her too.
The world was a strange place, after all.