"Sometimes, it's not the silence between two people that's loud... it's the weight of everything that was never said."
Present Day – Somewhere near the riverbanks, evening mist curling around their footsteps
The silence stretched like a thin wire between them. The gentle ripple of the water nearby couldn't drown out the echo of truths long buried. Haider adjusted the cuff of his coat, his eyes fixed on the horizon, while Abrish stood beside him—quiet, unreadable.
"I know what we're looking for," Haider murmured, finally breaking the stillness. "It's not just about the documents. It's about the man who made them disappear."
Abrish tilted her head. "And who's that?"
He paused. "My father… or the man I thought was my father."
Before she could speak, a distant dog barked, and they both turned sharply. The alley behind them remained empty. But something in the air felt off—as though the ghosts of their past were walking beside them now.
Flashback The Day After the Betrayal
The rain hammered the rooftop of her flat in Istanbul, soaking the balcony and painting the glass with trails of blurred lights. Abrish sat on the floor, arms wrapped around her knees, eyes swollen from a storm she hadn't dared to release in front of anyone.
In her trembling hands, she held a piece of paper—his handwriting. Cold. Calculated. It wasn't a confession. It was a lie wrapped in half-truths, and it tore at her every time she read it.
"I did what I had to. It wasn't about you. It was never supposed to be personal."
Those words shattered her. Because if it wasn't personal… why did it hurt this much?
Flashback: Zayan After She Walked Away
The library was empty, drenched in golden afternoon light. Zayan sat by the window, a leather-bound journal open in front of him. But he wasn't reading. His fingers hovered over the pages that held sketches of dreams—hers and his—plans they'd scribbled when the world felt like theirs to take.
He remembered how her laughter sounded when she was lost in thought, the way she tilted her head while reading poetry, and how fiercely she believed in things.
But he had burned her trust.
He stared at the journal.
"Some wounds," he whispered, "aren't meant to heal. They're reminders."
One Night in Istanbul, Before It All Fell Apart
It was the rooftop café. String lights swayed above, the Bosphorus glimmered in the distance, and Abrish was smiling—unaware that the world beneath her was cracking.
"I'm scared," she had said softly.
Zayan had raised an eyebrow. "Of what?"
"That I'll lose all this… that I'll lose us," she replied.
He had taken her hand then, his thumb brushing hers. "Even if the world changes, I won't."
She had believed him.
And that belief… was the very thing that shattered her later.
Abrish's Childhood – The Paper Boat
Rain poured over the courtyard of Pasha House. A little Abrish ran barefoot, clutching a paper boat. Her father, Ahmed Pasha, stood by the pillars, watching her laugh.
"But what if it sinks?" she had asked, kneeling by the puddle.
"It might," he smiled, "but that doesn't mean you stop making boats."
She hadn't understood back then. But years later, when everything did sink—her father, her belief in people, her love—she remembered that line.
The Silence Behind the Door
In a dim room in Khan Mansion, a young boy sat by the door, listening to the muffled voices of adults behind it. Words like "deal," "danger," "dark money" floated in the air.
He didn't understand them fully.
But he knew this—his father wasn't like other fathers.
Later that night, when his cousin sneaked into the room and handed him a compass, the boy had asked, "Why this?"
The cousin had smiled sadly. "So you always find your way back… even if they try to make you forget who you are."
Present Day – Return to the Ledger
Back at the safehouse, Abrish placed the dusty ledger on the table. Haider's hand trembled slightly as he flipped the pages.
And then he stopped.
His eyes widened.
A signature.
It wasn't a name. Not in full. Just an initial and a crest. The same crest that once hung in Khan Mansion's forbidden study.
"It was someone from your family?" Abrish asked, her voice careful.
He looked up, something breaking inside him. "I think this… was meant for me. But it never reached me."
And then he pulled out the black envelope he had received years ago—the one that started it all. The handwriting matched.