A briefcase lay on the table, filled with countless pictures of a newborn girl. Each page, each tiny glimpse, every shade and sketch spoke of a memory long preserved.
Zaarim placed a page into the briefcase, where thousands of sketches of the girl were arranged. Every line, every shadow, every color was so precise and complete that it left one in awe.
At that moment, a light knock came at the door. Zaarif entered, carrying a cup of coffee. Silently, he approached Zaarim and handed him the cup.
Zaarif glanced at the briefcase casually, then at Zaarim.
"Oh, by the way, tell me… what are you going to do with this briefcase?" he asked, taking a sip of coffee.
Zaarim glared at him with his golden eyes and asked sharply,
"What do you mean by that?"
"Ah bro… how many times have you been to New York? How many of these pictures have you made?" Zaarif said, laughing.
"Why can't you forget this girl?" he added with a sigh.
"I didn't create her by controlling my own senses, nor can I undo it myself," Zaarim said, taking a slow sip of coffee.
"I can't believe you're seventeen now, and for ten years you've held on to the memory of this girl you glimpsed only once ten years ago. You don't even know her name, or anything else about her…" Zaarif said, astonished and incredulous.
Zaarim set the coffee cup down on the table and, without a word, walked toward the washroom.
"I can't believe we're twins… the difference between us is like night and day!" Zaarif muttered, letting out a heavy sigh as he watched Zaarim leave.