The Kuala Lumpur sun was uncharacteristically forgiving that afternoon, casting long, golden streaks across the polished floor of the shopping mall. Almara sat on the corner of a dimly lit cafe, her fingers tracing the rim of a porcelain cup. The steam from her black coffee swirled in the air like restless spirits, echoing the turmoil in her own mind.
Just as she was about to take a sip, the chair across from her scraped against the floor with a sharp, decisive sound.
Almara looked up, her breath hitching fir a fraction of a second. It was him. Aradam Shah sat there with a heavy, regal composure, as if the very air in the cafe belonged to him. His black eyes were like twin voids, capturing the light but reflecting nothing back. He didn't just sit; he occupied the space, his presence an unmistakable claim on her attention.
"You again?" Almara managed a soft smile, trying to steady her voice.
Aradam adjusted his mask slightly, the dark fabric a stark contrast against his intense gaze. "Why? Was I not supposed to come?"
"You can... after all, you did help me," Almara replied. Her mind immediately drifted back to that rain-drenched day in the city, a memory that felt like a haunting ghost of its own.
The Memory of Rain
The sky had been a bruised purple that day, pouring down in relentless sheets that turned the streets into rivers. Almara and Zara were darting through the downpour, their shoes splashing against the pavement as they tried to reach their car. The rhythmic sound of heavy footsteps behind them made Zara's face go pale with dread.
Just as a group of men began to close in on them, a figure emerged from the veil of rain like a shadow coming to life.
It was Aradam Shah. His clothes were soaked through, clinging to his frame, but it was his eyes—overflowing with a cold, simmering rage—that stopped everyone in their tracks. The men, who had looked so menacing moments ago, withered under his gaze. They vanished into the mist without a single word, as if his very proximity was a threat they couldn't endure.
"Are you two alright?" Aradam's voice had cut through the roar of the rain, surprisingly steady. .
"They... they hadn't do anything," Almara had whispered, her eyes locked onto his. Even then amidst the chaos of the storm, she had felt a strange, magnetic pull toward the darkness in him.
"Go. I'm right behind you," he said. This time, the steel in his voice had a velvet edge—a protective shield that Almara hadn't expected.
The encounters didn't stop there. Almara remembered a quiet evening in a park near her home. Aradam had appeared as if woven from the twilight itself. As they walked, the silence between them was heavy with the things unsaid.
"Your eyes... they are quiet remarkable," Almara had said, her honesty catching him off guard.
Aradam, a man accustomed to being feared, went still for a moment. "You're a very direct girl, aren't you?"
"I just say what I see. And I see someone who isn't nearly as bad as people think," Almara countered softly.
"So, you think I'm good?" He took a step closer, his shadow falling over her.
"I don't know about the others, but with me... you're different."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips—a very rare, fleeting thing. "You observe people well, don't you?"
"Only the ones who matter," Almara replied. Aradam didn't ask if he was one of those people. He didn't have too.
"After all these meetings, you still haven't told me your name, nor have you taken off that mask," Almara said in the cafe, her voice tinged with a playful yet weary reproach.
"I will... when the time comes," Aradam replied, his voice a low hum.
"And when will that be?"
"Sooner, than you think, Fairy.
Almara shook off the weight of the memories, looking at the man before her. He felt different now—sharper, perhaps more guarded. "Those days were good. You seem... changed."
A flicker of pain crossed his eyes. "No, Fairy. I was always like this. It was only with you that I was different. Perhaps that was the only time I was truly myself."
Almara stood up, her chest tightening. She wanted to stay, to bridge the distance that the years had built between them, but the grief in his eyes was a wall she couldn't yet climb.
"Your dupatta... it's still with me," Aradam called out as she turned to leave.
Almara paused, looking back over her shoulder, "keep it. Maybe it will remind you that I once called you good."
The scene shifted as she walked out. The sun was at its peak now, its brilliance illuminating the way she draped her dupatta over her head. She walked away into the light, and Aradam Shah stood there, watching her silhouette fade. His eyes were moist, yet a faint, heartbreaking smile played on his lips—the took of a man who had lost most precious treasure but still wished it the very best.