The letter came three days after the fire.
Aaliyah had been sitting in the quiet of their small borrowed cabin when Silas handed it to her — his eyes wary, his mouth a line of tension.
"It's from your father," he said.
Lucien stood in the doorway, arms folded, shadows in his gaze. "We can read it first if you want—"
"No." Aaliyah took the envelope and opened it with fingers steadier than she felt. Her heart already bracing for disappointment.
The handwriting was unmistakable — bold and sharp, like him.
> My daughter,
I write to you not as a man full of pride, but one full of guilt.
You must believe me when I say I raised you with faith because I believed it would shield you, make you stronger in a world that is cruel to women like us. I never expected you to choose a path that frightened me so deeply.
I was afraid of losing you to men who could not understand our faith. Who could not love Allah the way we were taught to. Who could not raise your children upon the same rug your mother and I prayed on.
But it seems I lost you anyway.
I heard what happened. The kidnapping. The silence. The fire. I know where you are.
And yet, I will not come for you.
Not because I do not miss you.
But because I fear if I see you with them — I may never be able to forgive you.
And still… I write to say I am sorry.
I should have listened.
I should have believed in your strength, even when I couldn't believe in theirs.
May Allah protect you, always.
But know this, my daughter — forgiveness does not always mean acceptance.
You are loved.
You are missed.
But you are no longer one of us.
Aaliyah let the letter fall to her lap.
Silas stepped closer, crouching beside her, brushing a tear from her cheek.
Lucien watched from the shadows, silent, patient, letting her breathe.
"I hoped," Aaliyah whispered, "that maybe if he forgave me, I wouldn't feel like I was bleeding every time I prayed."
"You're not alone anymore," Silas said gently. "Not in your pain. Not in your prayers."
Lucien finally walked forward, sitting on her other side. "He may not accept you. But we do. Every broken part of you. Every sacred part."
Her lips trembled. "But how do I choose between the men I love and the God I serve?"
"You don't have to choose," Lucien whispered. "Not anymore."
Silas took her hands. "We're not asking you to give Him up. We're asking you to bring us with you."
Aaliyah looked between them. These two men who had been enemies, broken things, monsters in suits.
And yet here they were—soft for her. Devoted.
"We want to learn," Lucien said, eyes wet. "Teach us how to find the God you never stopped seeing."
She broke then.
Cried not from pain, but from the aching relief of being seen. Fully. Faithfully.
Outside, the wind carried the scent of smoke and pine. Inside, a new kind of fire was beginning to warm their hearts.
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