The next few days were quiet.
Not the kind of silence that felt empty — but the kind where something deep was growing between two people who had seen too much, said little, but understood everything.
Zahid didn't force me to speak.
He didn't send messages or calls.He waited. Gave me space. Gave me time.
But his presence remained — like a soft warmth near a cold heart.
And that's what I needed.
It was Saturday morning when I found the courage to go outside again.
I walked to the small park near my home, the same one where I used to go as a child. I hadn't returned there for years — not since the murder I had witnessed near that place. But something inside me wanted to break the chain.
To face the shadow that had followed me for so long.
I sat on a bench, hugging my knees, watching children play in the distance.
That's when I heard footsteps.
Familiar. Calm.
I didn't have to turn to know it was Zahid.
He didn't sit beside me. He stood nearby, silently watching.
"I didn't think you'd come here," he said softly.
"I didn't think I could," I whispered back.
Silence.
"I used to play here before everything changed," I continued. "Before the blood. Before the fear. I wanted to feel like that girl again."
Zahid finally sat beside me, but not too close. Just enough to let me breathe.
"You're braver than you think, Rida."
I looked at him. "You think I'm brave? You've killed people and walked through fire. I cry when the lights go out."
He smiled faintly. "Crying doesn't mean weakness. It means you still feel. That's a strength I lost long ago."
I didn't believe that.Zahid felt — I saw it in his eyes now. I saw it in the way he stayed. In the way he let me break in front of him, and didn't flinch.
He reached into his pocket and handed me a small paper bag.
"What's this?"
"Sweet corn," he said. "You mentioned you loved it once… when you were seven."
I blinked, surprised. "You remember that?"
He gave a short nod, eyes looking straight ahead. "I remember everything you say."
My heart fluttered at those words.
How could someone so cold, so guarded, still carry little pieces of me inside him?
We shared the sweet corn, sitting in silence.Each bite melted some fear.Each glance between us softened something broken.
"Zahid…" I finally said, "Can I ask you something?"
He turned to me slowly.
"Why do you still wear the mask, even when you're alone?"
His eyes dropped.
"Because I don't know who I am without it."
His voice was low, almost painful. "This face… it's not me. It's just what's left of the boy I buried years ago. The mask? It's safer. People fear it. People don't get close."
I touched his hand gently. "But I got close."
He looked at our joined hands — then slowly looked into my eyes.
"Yes," he whispered. "You did."
The wind picked up slightly, and the sound of children laughing filled the air.
And for the first time in years, I smiled at that sound instead of flinching.
Maybe the world still had beautiful things.
Maybe even people with blood on their hands could hold something gentle without breaking it.
Maybe… this was the beginning of healing.