The Arrival

The morning unfolded in slow, deliberate breaths.

Aziz sat on a small wooden stool just outside the house, the rising sun casting a golden warmth over his features. He was still, contemplative—not reminiscing, but sifting through the fragments of last night’s celebration, piecing together the unexpected turns that had disrupted his certainty.

The moment the neighbors arrived, their voices spilling over with praise and congratulations, still echoed in his mind. Their words had carried weight, certainty—words he had not anticipated. The scholarship, the highest marks in town. Eda’s success had reached beyond the walls of their home, beyond his own expectations. Yet, when he had turned toward her, expecting joy, expecting the spark of achievement—there had been silence. And then, her stepmother.

Challa’s face had tightened, but her voice had held an unsettling ease. "We were just playing a little joke on you," she had laughed, waving it away. "Look at your face!"

And just like that, the tension dissolved, or at least—was meant to. The guests had laughed, the celebration continued, but Aziz had felt something shift within him. A lingering thought, a sensation too stubborn to ignore.

Even now, seated beneath the warmth of the morning, he wrestled with it. He had no reason to believe anything beyond what was said, beyond what was confirmed by the school itself. But something gnawed at the edges of his mind.

Still, he let himself settle into the truth that mattered—the scholarship. The opportunity. The future he had dreamed for his daughter was not slipping away. And for now, that was enough.

...****************...

In the backyard, Eda scrubbed the fabric against the washboard, the scent of sun-dried linens mixing with the crisp air. Her hands moved with practiced ease, but her thoughts drifted.

The memory of her father’s face—lit with joy, lifted with relief—played in her mind, filling her with warmth. The scholarship had changed everything, shifting the weight she had carried, dissolving the fear of burdening him further.

For the first time in weeks, she had seen him laugh without restraint, without the heaviness of financial worry dampening his expression. That alone made her heart feel lighter.

But then—Challa.

Eda remembered the moment she had pulled her stepmother aside, away from the celebration, away from the smiling neighbors. The conversation had been brief, but heavy.

"The scholarship," she had said, her voice measured. "It covers everything. There’s no need to worry about money anymore."

Challa had pursed her lips, her expression unreadable, and then—without a word—she had simply turned and walked away.

Eda had stood there, unmoving, watching her disappear into the house.

Now, as she worked through the laundry, the thought still clung to her—unanswered, unresolved.

A sharp voice pulled her from her trance.

"Eda!"

Her stepmother.

She straightened, shaking off her thoughts, turning toward the house.

The weight of last night had not yet fully lifted.

...****************...

Eda had been lost in the tangle of her thoughts, the echoes of the previous night pressing against her mind like ink seeping into cloth. Her stepmother’s voice cut through her wandering—sharp, firm, an unspoken warning carried in its cadence.

She flinched. The sound of her name from Chala’s lips had never simply been a call; it had always been a summons, tethered to expectation.

A breath. A steadying pause. She adjusted her shawl and stepped toward the house, the weight of uncertainty pressing against her ribs. After last night—after Chala’s dismissal, her cruel silence—Eda wasn’t sure where they stood. Was her stepmother simply setting another trap? Or had she already decided that Eda wasn’t worth her time?

She found Chala near the entrance, adorned in layers of intricate beads that clicked together with the slightest movement, her headscarf framing her sharp, assessing gaze.

“Did you call me?”Eda asked, careful, measured.

“Your father needs you,” Chala replied, her tone indifferent. “Give him a foot wash.”

Eda swallowed her unease. She stepped inside, preparing the bowl of water, the routine methodical—pour, steady the clay, press fingers against the rim to ground herself.

Aziz was lost in thought when she approached. He sat on his stool, his broad figure weighed down by something heavier than time. She knelt before him, setting the bowl beneath his feet, before lifting her gaze to his face—the expression there unreadable, a storm behind his eyes.

“Father,” she murmured, the word barely leaving her lips as she gently held his foot, the warmth of his skin grounding her.

For a moment, he simply stared at her. The sadness in his gaze was sharper than any spoken reprimand. Then, silently, he lifted his leg, settling it into the water.

As she washed his feet, the silence between them stretched, thick with unspoken truths—until he broke it.

“Why did you lie?” His voice was quiet but firm.

Eda’s fingers faltered for half a second before continuing their rhythmic movement. She didn’t look up, but her heart startled, its beat betraying her.

He spoke again, just as gently, but with a steel beneath his words. “Why didn’t you tell me you passed?”

She swallowed, forcing a lightness into her tone. “We were just playing.”

Aziz exhaled, his gaze darkening. Slowly, carefully, he lifted her chin, tilting her face toward him so she had no choice but to meet his eyes.

“Did your stepmother put you up to this?”

She could feel her pulse hammering beneath his touch.

She inhaled—steady, certain—and forced her answer. “Absolutely not. It was my idea.” She tried to smile. “I thought it’d be funny. I’m sorry.”

Aziz studied her for a long, unrelenting moment. He didn’t believe her. But he let it go.

Once she finished, he blessed her and kissed her forehead, as he always did. She rose with the bowl in her hands, stepping away, knowing that the conversation had only ended in words—not in truth.

...****************...

The workers at the textile workshop moved with efficiency, their hands threading, dyeing, sewing, and printing.

Today, the atmosphere had an added weight.

A representative was coming from the main branch in the city. This wasn’t just a routine visit—it was an evaluation, an opportunity, or a reckoning.

Mr. Aziz walked among them, urging excellence, encouraging them to be at their absolute best.

Eda worked alongside him, her movements practiced as she flung pigment onto the hanging threads, coating them in deep, rich tones—tradition, skill, artistry, all woven into each motion.

Eda lifted the jug with steady hands, tilting it forward with practiced ease. The ink spilled in thick, deliberate ribbons, meant to soak into the stretched threads before her. But in an instant—so quick it barely registered—the trajectory shifted.

Instead of dyeing the fabric, the liquid splashed onto the figure that had unknowingly stepped into its path.

A sharp inhale. A startled gasp.

She froze.

The clay slipped from her fingers, hitting the ground with a dull crack, its remnants scattering at her feet. Her hands flew to her mouth, covering it in shock, her breath caught somewhere in her chest.

The man, his presence unfamiliar yet undeniable, instinctively wiped the ink from his face. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision, the abruptness of the moment leaving him disoriented. His movements were quick, urgent—not of anger, but of confusion.

He inhaled sharply, his gaze flickering as he took in his surroundings, trying to piece together the scene.

And then, before he could fully register what had happened, another figure emerged behind him.

A steadier presence. Someone belonging to the house, to the business, to the pulse of this place—someone accustomed to movement, to handling what needed handling.

Tomas.

Eda knew him well—he was woven into the fabric of their daily lives, navigating both the house and the workshop with the ease of someone who had long learned how to balance duty. He wasn’t just a helping hand; he was a fixer, a negotiator, a silent orchestrator of order.

He stepped forward, catching the moment as if his presence alone could smooth the edges of disruption.

But Eda wasn’t watching Tomas. Her gaze remained locked on the man before her—the man who now stood there, ink-streaked, blinking back the remnants of surprise.

This was how they met. Not in hushed introductions or formal exchanges.

But in spilled pigment and startled silence.

...****************...

Eda’s breath caught in her throat as she watched the ink splatter across the stranger’s chest, dripping down in thick, uneven streaks against the fabric. His movement was instinctive—a sharp inhale, a startled step back—his hand coming up to wipe the liquid from his face, clearing his vision, as if trying to make sense of what had just happened.

The clay jug slipped from Eda’s fingers before she could process the moment, crashing against the stone floor with a muted crack, shards scattering at her feet. Her hands flew to her mouth, covering it in shock, her breath caught somewhere in her chest.

For a moment, all she could hear was the sharp hush of the workshop—the sudden absence of chatter, the weight of silence settling thick in the air.

And then, a voice cut through it.

Thomas stepped forward, his presence emerging from the shadows like a force meant to restore order. His voice carried authority, but not patience.

“What the hell just happened?”

The words snapped through the space, heavy, demanding.

Thomas’s gaze flickered between Eda and the man before her, his frustration sharpening. “Are you blind?” he barked, his tone edged with incredulity. “Did you not see a grown man standing right in front of you?”

Eda swallowed hard, her body jolting into movement, apology spilling from her lips before she could even think.

“I—I’m so sorry—”

Her hands moved before her mind caught up, reaching instinctively for the nearest fabric hanging from the drying racks. She pulled it down in one swift motion, pressing it against the man’s ink-stained face, dabbing at the dark streaks marring his skin and clothes.

He said nothing.

Simply watched her.

The weight of his gaze was heavy—not accusing, not harsh, but something else entirely. Amusement.

The edges of his lips barely moved, but there was something in his eyes, a flicker of quiet entertainment at the way she stumbled over her apologies, at the frantic way she tried to fix what could not be undone.

Without breaking his stare, he lifted his hand—just the smallest movement, a silent gesture meant to shush Thomas.

And Thomas, ever the loyal servant of hierarchy, immediately fell silent.

Mr. Aziz had rushed forward the moment the commotion began, his instinct pushing him toward his daughter, toward the mess of ink and tension that filled the air. But as he neared, his steps slowed. He observed, assessed, read the atmosphere.

The situation had settled.

Still, he approached, his presence deliberate, his gaze calm yet firm.

“Apologize properly, Eda,” he instructed, voice even, eyes flicking toward the guest.

She did, again, though her words carried a softer breath now, less frantic, more measured.

Aziz turned his attention to the two men.

“You’re from the main branch of Roseanne Family Textile, I presume?”

Thomas exhaled, the weight of irritation still lingering in his posture. “Yes, we are,” he responded, clipped, short. He shifted, about to continue, about to say something else—something far more revealing—when the ink-stained man beside him raised his hand again, stopping him with effortless command.

“Employees,” the man said simply. His voice was smooth, unassuming but deliberate.

Aziz nodded, accepting the answer without question. “Eda, take him to wash in the backyard,” he instructed, his tone carrying expectation rather than request.

And just like that, the moment shifted.

Eda led him through the narrow corridor, away from the lingering stares, past the storage rooms and back toward the quiet space where water ran cool and fresh from the stone basin. She poured it carefully, watching the way the ink mixed with it, the way the dark stains slowly faded into nothing.

He stood before her, peeling the damp fabric from his torso with practiced ease, pulling the shirt over his head, revealing the sharp lines of his physique, the effortless definition, the strength that came from something deeper than leisure.

She swallowed, forcing her gaze to remain steady, to remain proper.

He watched her watching him, and the faintest flicker of amusement curled at the corner of his lips.

“You’re nervous,” he observed, the words casual, conversational.

“I’m not,” she countered quickly. Too quickly.

And there was the amusement again, subtle, entertained, drawn from the way she refused to meet his eyes, from the way she poured water without speaking, from the way she carried herself like someone deeply aware of her own presence.

For the first time since their meeting, he smiled.

Not fully.

Just enough to make her pulse stumble.

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