That night, after dinner, while darkness draped its inky veil over the city, Assad did not return to the comfort of his chambers. A deeper promise called to him—older, more painful.
He slipped out of the palace in secret, avoiding curious or prying gazes. Beneath the soft glow of street lanterns, he wound through silent alleys, his stride confident despite the years away. He knew exactly where he was headed—his legs carried him effortlessly.
The old cemetery of Al-Qaria lay on the outskirts, where the desert began to gnaw at the land of the living. It was a place of dust and prayers, white stones etched with forgotten verses.
Assad passed through the chipped arch and moved slowly along the pathways. His fingers glided over the gravestones, grazing names, dates, memories.
Then he saw it.
Samir's grave.
Assad froze at a distance, his chest cramping with a dull ache. Years hadn't erased anything—not guilt, not regret.
In front of the grave knelt two figures, shrouded in sorrow: Samir's mother, her once-dark hair now gray, and his father, stooped under a decade of mourning. Beside them stood Samir's younger brother—grown now—holding his mother's hand, tears streaking over his dark cheek.
Assad's throat constricted. He wanted to step forward, to tell them he was sorry, that he didn't pass a day without thinking of Samir. But he stayed rooted—an intruder in their grief.
He saw Samir's mother place a hand on the stone, stroking it as though her son could still feel her touch. He heard the father whisper something, eyes cast upward— a silent cry the desert wind could not carry away.
One step further and he would have shattered that sacred moment.
One word and he would have reopened unfathomable wounds.
So he stepped back, slowly, heart in pieces. He had no right to disturb their mourning—not after all he had cost them.
Silently, he left the cemetery like a ghost.
Under the desert stars, alone with his sorrow, Assad understood—some sins would never be forgiven. Some scars would never fully heal.
If he wished to honor his friend's memory, it wouldn't be with words.
It would be through his deeds.
By the life he chose to lead.
---
Heavy-footed, his spirit weighed even more, Assad wandered aimlessly through the narrow streets of the city. Night had fallen long ago, but in the poorer quarters, life went on—warm and lively. Children played raucously as merchants closed shop. The scent of warm bread and spices lingered in the air.
He walked, head bowed beneath his cloak, trying to outrun his thoughts—until a shrill voice snapped him from his daze:
— "Don't you know? The prince has returned! The spoiled, wayward prince!" murmured an old woman as she placed a stool in front of her door.
A young man, leaning against a wall, chuckled:
— "Word is he hasn't changed. Ten years gone, and the same old story."
— "Hmph. People like that never change," added an elder, shaking his head.
Assad halted in the shadow, breath catching. He clenched his fists beneath his cloak. These scornful words pierced him like daggers.
They knew nothing.
Or perhaps they knew everything.
Memories of his past assailed him—wild nights, foolish dares fueled by intoxicants, uncontrolled rage, promises made and broken at dawn.
People he had betrayed.
Samir, most of all.
The weight of those memories crushed him. Ten years had passed, but in the hearts of the people, he remained frozen in his worst mistakes.
And maybe he deserved their silent condemnation.
Assad resumed walking, more slowly now. Each step echoed a cruel reminder.
He understood that no matter what he did next, a stain still marred his name—indelible.
To cleanse his honor, he knew it wouldn't come from kind words.
Actions. Proof. Transformation.
He continued into the shadow, words unspoken.
They spoke of a ghost, not the man he had become.
Ten years… Ten years fighting himself, running from his name, mastering discipline, respect, self-control.
Ten years rebuilding, far from the gilded palace, far from venomous whispers.
But here, in the streets that had witnessed his worst fallings, he was still a rumor—a reopened wound.
Assad tasted bitterness in his throat.
He could have flared up, screamed to the world that he was no longer that capricious prince.
He could have defended himself. Explained.
But he did not.
He knew real change wasn't proven with words.
It was shown in deeds. Over time.
And he was ready to wait.
Lifting his head slightly, Assad crossed the square like a stranger, ignoring sideways glances and hushed remarks.
He hadn't come this far to fall again into anger or pride.