The clock ticked in deadly silence, each passing second like a sword slicing through the nerves of time.
Lujain sat on her chair, her hands bound, yet she remained silent a silence heavy enough to crush bones, a silence that almost burned the air itself.
She felt her heart beating outside her body.
Light seeped through the golden chandeliers, each beam a white flame that scorched long shadows across the walls, every corner and every detail looked like a massive oil painting, presenting fear.
Every shadow whispered truths unknown to anyone, each murmur questioned her heart, her mind, her soul.
Suddenly, the door opened. The final witness at the threshold carried both truth and death in a single moment.
The knowledge of all had become a painting, each of his movements a fire that pierced the mind a single moment, a single glance.
Justice awaited to be written, the heart blazed with the fires of reason, and the soul wandered through everything it had ever known about itself.
Everything had become a poem written upon the air, every breath in the room whispered: "Is what you see reality, or is it all an illusion?"
Everything began in 1970, in the heart of Mongolia, where the steppes stretch endlessly beneath a sky as clear as a promise unbroken. Arya was born in Ulaanbaatar, the capital city, in the north-central part of the country. The city was neither harsh nor cold, but profoundly honest its sincerity could burn the heart, turning every step on its streets into a whisper between shadow and light, planting in the soul a longing it had never known before.
Arya grew up in a spacious house, yet the emptiness within embraced her more than any warmth ever could, more than any embrace one could lament. Her face was like a painting kissed by the dawn, round and harmonious, and her wide eyes shimmered like amber lanterns, holding the depth of a clear sky and the calm of the Mongolian plains.
Her black hair fell over her shoulders like wings of dark clouds, silky and luminous under the sun, swaying with every passing breeze as if whispering the secrets of the wind. Her skin was smooth, ivory-hued with a touch of warmth, as though it carried within it the golden rays of sunlight. Her lips were naturally rose-colored, as if cut from a chrysanthemum bloom. Every movement of hers was like a gentle dance, light as a mountain breeze, and her smile stole hearts quietly, filled with a fleeting magic that left an unforgettable trace on the soul.
Even her scent, though imperceptible, seemed as if the earth itself had captured the fragrance of wildflowers, and the sky had breathed upon her a touch of clouded purity. Everything about her from the contours of her face to the delicate gestures of her hands reminded you that you were facing a being from another world, a nymph of paradise, yet rooted deeply in the distant steppes and slopes of Mongolia.
She was not spoiled.
She knew that power could not protect the heart.
She studied comparative literature,
because she was searching for something that could connect people,
when politics fail.At the same time, in Beirut, Asif was born, the son of a Lebanese ambassador.
His name was a burden before it became an identity, and his father's apartment was larger than a house, deeper than a family, and colder than any mother's embrace.
Asif grew up among books of diplomacy and official correspondence,
among portraits of men who never smiled, and the smiles of children who had never known play except in the light of rules.
He learned how to walk on tightropes without falling, how to hide his heart behind a perfect mask.
His childhood was like a house without windows,
he stepped outside only to dream of a world without maps,
yet every step was monitored… every smile a test.
He learned that love… was a forbidden word, and that silence… was a safe haven.
Every night, before he slept, he would hear the distant whisper of the sea in his mind,
as if Beirut were telling him that he could love freely,
even if the world would not allow it in reality.
He wrote letters he never sent, drew faces of people he had never met,
learning from his mother's silent tears, and from his father's long, unwavering gaze… that life is not fair, but it is a test.
He had never learned how to love, yet he knew how to be perfect:
how to please everyone, how to move through diplomacy like a dancer on silk threads,
how to smile for photographs, remain silent in letters, and live in a golden cage visible only from the outside.
Until the day he was sent to Mongolia, to continue his studies,
and, being the son of an ambassador, he moved from country to country each year to pursue his education.Asif was no ordinary man…
His beauty seemed as if it had been borrowed from the heavenly nymphs themselves.
Eyes like mirrors of the sky before the sun sets, clear as waters untouched by mystery.
Hair that flowed like the night across the endless steppes, black and shining as if it held the secrets of the stars.
His skin was soft as silk, yet carried the warmth of the sun and the glow of the moon on a clear night.
His smile… was a spell without words,
a single moment enough to erase the world's pain,
to make hearts pause in their beating, and to steal breaths without permission.
Even his smallest features his straight jawline, the majesty of his brows, the curve of his nose seemed as if they were etched by angels' hands.
And his steps… they were like a gentle dance upon the ground, as if the music itself moved with him.
Every movement, every glance, every whisper… made anyone who saw him feel as if they were witnessing an untold legendary love story.
His beauty was not merely appearance, but a spiritual magnetism:
his very presence awakened the heart and stirred longing, without a single word spoken.
Even the wind slowed when he passed, as if the universe itself wished to preserve that moment.Asif stepped out of the airport, his heavy suitcase dangling from his hand, the cold wind biting at his face.
The city felt strange and new; everything seemed larger than his heart and smaller than his freedom.
He rented a small apartment near the university, a simple room on the third floor, with a window overlooking a narrow street filled with cafes and tiny shops.
He placed his suitcase on the bed, sat for a moment staring at the city, then sent a short message to his uncle:
"I've arrived… everything's fine."
The next day, he dressed carefully, slinging his bag over his shoulder as he made his way to the university.
Every step felt strange, every sound unfamiliar, even the scent of the library made his heart race.
He entered the first classroom, and everyone turned to look at him curious glances, whispered words, some chuckling quietly.
He felt like a stranger, as if every eye were silently asking:
"Who is this newcomer? Where did he come from?"
Then suddenly, one person smiled at him gently: Arya.
She approached with confident steps, her hand extended in greeting:
"Hi! You're the new student, right? I'm Arya… nice to meet you."
Asif smiled shyly, shaking her hand lightly:
"I… I'm Asif. Nice to meet you too."
She sat beside him and began talking about the university, the classes, and the professors:
"Don't worry, everything will be fine. If you need any help, I'm here."
At that moment, Asif felt the loneliness start to fade slightly, as if her presence were a refuge amid a sea of unfamiliar faces.
As the professor began the lecture, Asif noticed the strange stares of other students, their whispers stiff and cautious, as if he were a rare animal in a garden full of strangers.
But Arya remained by his side, her calm smile saying silently:
"Everything will be okay. Trust me."At the end of the class, one student whispered from the back, smiling with curiosity:
"Who's this stranger? We need to know his story…"
Arya took out her notebook and jotted down a small note:
"The new stranger… his heart seems different."
After class, Asif walked slowly out of the lecture hall, the students following him with glances mixed with curiosity and envy.
Arya sat beside him once again, her hand warm, a gentle smile on her face, speaking softly.
He whispered to her:
"I didn't expect my first day here to be like this…"
She replied with a quiet smile:
"Sometimes, the strange beginnings turn out to be the most beautiful…"
Asif felt something strange in his heart; his heartbeat quickened, and his hands began to tremble slightly.
Arya noticed it, and her gentle touch on his shoulder just a light touch made the air around them feel different, as if time had stopped for a moment.
They sat together, exchanging fleeting glances and hidden smiles.
Every word Arya spoke carried a subtle meaning, and every movement of his was full of beautiful awkwardness.
Asif tried to start a conversation:
"I want to know you more… but I don't know where to begin."
Arya laughed softly, her eyes sparkling:
"Start from here, from this moment. Just talk about today."
And in that moment, they both felt as if the big city, the curious students, and the cold outside had all vanished.
Everything existed only in that small library, in this first encounter…
An encounter that would begin a love story with an unknown ending, a story full of emotions, drama, and impossible romance.
After Asif and Arya left the library, the campus was still cold, the wind scattering sheets of paper across the ground.
Asif felt something strange in his heart; every step he took felt heavy, yet having Arya by his side eased the burden of loneliness.
Suddenly, a book slipped from his bag onto the floor.
Arya hurried to pick it up, but before she could reach it, they noticed the gaze of another student, filled with jealousy and suspicion.
He whispered to her softly:
"Did you notice that? Seems like some of them don't like newcomers."
Arya smiled lightly, unafraid, and said:
"Don't worry… sometimes curiosity just takes over small hearts."
As they walked toward the next classroom, they heard a faint scream from afar.
Asif looked at Arya, and her eyes widened at the same moment.
A first-year student was caught in an embarrassing situation, and the other students were turning around, enjoying the scene.
Asif felt the urge to intervene, but he remembered the rules of diplomacy he had been raised with: never act before knowing all the facts.
Arya noticed the hesitation in his eyes and smiled at him in a way that seemed to say:
"You're not alone here… everything will be fine."
At that moment, a small notebook fell from Asif's bag without him noticing.
The wind flipped it open to a page with a drawing of old Beirut, accompanied by a short note he had written to himself before leaving:
"Love is hard, but the heart is truer than anything else."
Arya caught sight of the note, looked at him in surprise, then smiled softly:
"I see your heart holds stories… stories no one has been told."
For a moment, the campus, the curious students, and even the biting cold seemed to disappear.
It was as if the world had shrunk to that small library, to that single shared glance, to the quiet warmth between them.
Then Arya leaned slightly closer, whispering just for him:
"I wonder… what other stories are waiting to be discovered?"
Asif's pulse quickened. He opened his mouth to reply, but the sound of a distant bell interrupted them.
It was the signal for the next lecture… and yet, neither of them moved, both lost in the moment, knowing somehow that this was only the beginning.
From somewhere behind them, a faint whisper reached their ears:
"Did you see that? Something's happening between them… I need to know more… keep watching!"
And in that instant, the campus felt alive with secrets, curiosity, and the tension of a story about to unfold… one that no one would forget.