The morning was grey—no sun to warm, no clouds to weep. As if the sky had chosen to remain silent, just like her.
Rehana stepped out of the house in an eerie silence beside her mother, Salima, carrying a small basket with dry bread and a few dates—just like every visit to the hospital.
The road to the city was, as always, exhausting. Long and winding, passing through withered fields and stones piling on the roadside like painful memories refusing to fade.
With every pothole, the cart shook, and with every turn, Rehana felt her heart threatening to break.
She was thinking… about them, about herself, about her father who had been lying in the hospital bed for months… and about the neighbors' constant questions:
"So? What's wrong with your daughter? All the girls are married but her."
As if being unmarried was a crime—or a shame.
They arrived at the hospital. The cold white walls welcomed them, as usual, without a smile.
Near the waiting room corner, she saw her again… Maria, the elderly European woman, holding Matteo in her arms—the child whose face and voice had become more familiar to Rehana's heart than anyone else's.
She approached them and greeted them with a calm smile.
Maria looked exhausted, but her eyes lit up with joy at the sight of the girl.
While Rehana and her mother chatted with Maria, she noticed—just out of the corner of her eye—a man standing at the end of the hallway, his eyes fixed on them, unmoving.
Her instincts stirred. Something felt… off.
When he moved toward the back corridor, she quietly decided to follow him.
Suddenly, he stopped. And unintentionally, a brown leather book slipped from his bag.
The man vanished as if he were never there.
Rehana bent to pick up the book, her heart pounding—as if she were holding something forbidden.
She opened it... its pages were filled with sorrowful words, written in slanted, feminine handwriting:
> "I loved him… but he belonged to them, not me.
They couldn't accept me. They turned my life into hell.
Take everything—but please, leave my child…"
Rehana's fingers trembled as she flipped through the pages.
But it wasn't just the diary that caught her attention—
Inside the back cover, tucked neatly, was a small folded paper.
She pulled it out slowly.
It was a printed sheet, old, marked with a faint, unclear signature. No names. Just:
> "We agree to resolve the situation discreetly.
The target will be dealt with quietly, attributed to medical complications.
No further contact."
The document was dated three years ago.
Her mouth went dry.
Was this paper proof that Matteo's mother had been murdered?
Did Maria know? Did Leonardo?
Rehana hid the paper inside the book, her hands slightly shaking, then walked back with cautious steps.
Maria was gently humming a lullaby to Matteo, unaware that a dark past had just stirred behind her.
Rehana stared at the boy, as if trying to shield him from something invisible—
something quietly creeping toward their peaceful world.
She glanced at the journal one last time, folded it carefully, and hid it in her small purse.
She told no one. Not Maria. Not her mother.
She didn't speak a word.
As if nothing had happened.
But inside her, something shifted.
A fragile thread now tied her to Matteo—not just because he was a sweet child,
but because he now carried a secret,
and she alone held its first clue.
She knew this wouldn't be their last encounter.
And this secret… would not stay quiet for long.