Where is Manar?
Book One: The Twin Star
Chapter 8: The Thread
—
Ahmad helped me bring out the generator — the diesel-powered one, because the electricity could cut out at any moment.
I brought out the barber's cape and the rest of my tools. And the trash bin. Yes, don't be surprised about the trash bin. If you leave it outside, some passerby might decide they like it.
Finally, the exterior lights. I set them up because if I forgot them outside, they'd definitely get stolen or broken.
"Hey, Sami. Hey, Ahmad." A voice behind me.
"Hey, Farqad." Ahmad went inside to wash his hands.
"Hey, Farqad." I stepped out to greet him.
Farqad is one of my friends. His house is next to the salon I rent. He's the type who simmers silently until he boils over.
"Sami, come here. Watch this. Judge for yourself."
He handed me his phone. The moment I saw the screen, I burst out laughing. He'd left his pickup truck outside his house for just a few seconds — and an old woman appeared, collecting trash from the street. With complete confidence, she started dumping it into the bed of his truck. Like it was a public garbage bin!
"Hahahaha!" I couldn't control myself.
"Damn you, Sami. What's so funny? That old woman turned my hair gray!" His face was red.
"Come on, Farqad. That's Umm Qader. We accepted the situation ages ago."
Umm Qader is the woman I rent my salon from. She owns the house next to Farqad's. A kind-hearted woman, but in the last two years, her radar has started malfunctioning. Severe forgetfulness. Strange behavior. I find it hilarious, honestly — but for others, it's a disaster. And Farqad, unlucky guy, is her direct neighbor. As he put it: "I think my ass is growing gray hair now."
"Bro, imagine — she throws her trash into my garden over the wall! And I raised that wall to three meters! How does her arm even reach? I don't know!"
"Are you King Charles building a wall for Mary? Complaining about an old woman?"
"Last week, she threw an entire concrete block into my trash bin. Imagine the weight! How did she even carry it? And why my bin? They have their own bin!" He was boiling.
What do you want me to say? Maybe she wanted to reinforce your new wall with an extra layer. Don't you know helping your neighbor is a duty?
"You're right, Farqad. I talked to Mahmoud — you were there. They're trying to stop her from bothering you. But she's not in her right mind, man. Forget who raised you and your brothers? Who took care of you when you were kids?" I tried to calm things down.
"I know, bro. But you need two hearts to handle her actions." He pocketed his phone.
"Then put yourself in Mahmoud's place. Imagine what he goes through." I remembered her grandson complaining about her recently. I pulled out cigarettes and offered him one.
"I don't know what to do." He took a deep breath. Exhaled smoke.
"Let it go, bro. There's no solution. Things happen. We live with them. That's Iraq." I silently prayed I'd die with my mind intact — never reach this state.
"Alright, old man. See you later." He walked away.
"Bye, Omega."
—
I went back inside. Sterilized my tools. Set up the machines. Made two cups of tea. Handed one to Ahmad.
"Sami, could you fix my hair? I couldn't get it right." Ahmad examined his reflection, unsatisfied.
"One sec." I turned on the speaker. Connected my phone via Bluetooth. Fixed his hair. The rest of the time passed as usual — work started when the customers with appointments arrived.
Ding-dong. The door opened.
"Hey, Sami. How's it going, man?" A guy over two meters tall walked in. Muscular build.
"Hey, Rocky. How are you?" I shook his hand.
Ibrahim — nicknamed Rocky. Respectful guy. Good manners. Rarely gets into trouble.
Two meters tall. Muscular. The only person Maytham never tried to pick a fight with. Not because Maytham's scared — but because even Maytham knows the difference between courage and stupidity. One of my oldest friends. Been coming to me for years.
"Same as usual." He asked for the Marines cut. Likes his hair short. Shaves his mustache and beard with a razor.
"You got it, man." I sat him down, brought the cape, and started working.
"Seen any new movies?" Rocky loves films. Most of our conversations are about movies.
"Haven't had time lately. Too busy." I kept cutting.
"I don't get it. New movies keep getting worse, but the technology keeps improving. Shouldn't it be the opposite?"
"It's the minds, Rocky. Minds are rotten, so the ideas are rotten. And the propaganda — all that weird stuff — it's destroyed art. Tsk..."
"Yeah. That's why old movies will live forever."
—
The day moved to the rhythm of my scissors. The bell rang with every entry and exit. A few hours passed. The salon was alive — three customers inside, two waiting on the worn leather couch, one receiving final touches under my hands. We watched a football match on TV. The commentator's voice filled the space with fake enthusiasm.
Then —
The sound cut out.
Not just the TV. Everything stopped. The scissors went silent. A customer's laugh froze in his throat. Even the generator's hum outside seemed to vanish into another dimension. A strange weight descended on the room. Sudden, overwhelming cold. The AC felt lukewarm. A chill ran down all our spines for no reason.
I turned toward the door. Didn't hear the bell. Instead — a hand in a pure white glove pushed the door open slowly.
A man walked in. He looked like he'd stepped out of an oil painting from a century ago. A pristine white tuxedo. In a street full of dust and mud. He took two steps without making a sound. All you could hear was the tap of his ebony cane — silver handle engraved with a symbol: an eye inside a circle.
"Hello."
His voice was soft. But it carried a coldness that froze the word mid-air. When our eyes met, something hit me. His eyes were blue. The clearest, deepest blue I'd ever seen. Like an ocean, pulling you in against your will.
Every fiber in my body screamed. An ancient instinct, trying to trigger an alarm. But its voice was muffled behind a wall of unknown fear.
"Excuse me... Could I have some water?"
A simple request. But it sounded like a royal command. My upbringing told me to give water to the thirsty. But something inside screamed: "Don't!"
"At your service... sir." My voice — I didn't recognize it. I walked to the fridge like a machine stripped of will. Returned. Handed him the cold bottle.
But I did it.
The moment his fingers touched mine, gripping the bottle, I didn't feel the cold water. I felt something else — like static electricity sucked all the air from my lungs. It wasn't his hand taking the bottle. It was my body "lurching" forward to hand it over. Like my hand wasn't mine anymore.
In that second, I saw my reflection in his blue eyes. But I wasn't Sami the barber. I looked like a thread of light, fading away.
Then... the world went dark.
—
[Third Person Perspective]
Five minutes earlier, an old man walked toward Sami's salon.
His footsteps made no sound. All you could hear was the tap of his cane. People passed him without noticing — like their eyes were programmed to ignore him.
He wore a white tuxedo with silver buttons. Like something kings wore in old movies. His white hair was carefully styled. His beard was neat — like part of a formal outfit. But his blue eyes — whoever looked into them felt they were facing someone who could read what hadn't been written yet.
His cane was the strangest part. If he let go, it moved on its own, pointing somewhere, and he followed. Like it knew where to go. Black material. Silver handle engraved with runes — like ancient temple drawings. In the center: an eye inside a circle.
He pulled out a pocket watch. Looked at it. Closed the lid.
"It's time."
He closed the watch, returned it to his pocket. Opened his hand — the cane returned like it knew its place.
On his way, a child ran toward him without looking. The man didn't avoid him. Didn't stop. At the moment of impact, the relevant part of his body turned into white smoke. The child passed through him like thin fog. Then the man reformed. The child didn't look back. Didn't feel a thing. Kept running.
This happened with everyone who got close. People didn't see him. If they got too close, they passed through him without knowing. Like he was made of mist — taking human form only because it suited the moment.
He reached the barbershop. Opened the door and walked in.
"Hello," the man said.
"Welcome." Sami turned toward the voice.
"Excuse me. Could I have some water?"
Their eyes met. Something in the man's eyes made Sami freeze. Fear — source unknown. An ancient instinct trying to scream. No sound came out. He didn't notice the TV had gone silent. Didn't notice the customers had stopped talking and moving entirely.
"At your service, sir."
"Here you are."
Time froze in Sami's salon. The customers became wax statues. The TV showed a frozen frame. Only the ebony cane in the mysterious man's hand moved slowly — pointing at Sami's chest. Sami stood motionless. His eyes empty.
The man reached out. But instead of taking the bottle, he slowly pushed his hand into Sami's chest. Didn't stop at skin. Didn't stop at bone. Passed through like Sami was made of air. Sami's eyes went blank.
The man searched inside — like he was looking for something. He knew where it was. Then he grabbed. Pulled.
His hand emerged holding a thin thread of white light. Weak. Like a candle about to go out.
The man brought his cane close to Sami's head — the ancient wood almost touching the boy's temple. Sami's gaze was lost somewhere no one else could see. The lights dimmed. The air grew heavy. Then the man's voice came out — calm, measured, like reading from an ancient scroll:
"On the seventh day, the hard one who contains the expanse will cross your path. You will wipe his dust with your blood — unintentionally — as if knocking on a door never opened for anyone else. Leave your mark on the wreckage of stars. And let time write your fate."
Silence. Sami didn't blink. Didn't move. But the words didn't vanish — they carved themselves into his subconscious. Like a tattoo that would only appear when the bleeding got bad enough.
The man stepped back. A cold smile crossed his face.
He raised his cane. Said:
"Appear."
The voice came from somewhere unknown. Not his throat. Not the room. From somewhere much farther.
Silent circular waves emerged from the cane. Grew. Spread until they filled the room. A thick rope of light appeared in the air. The cane lifted from the man's hand — attached itself like it knew him.
The man moved his hand — the rope pulled toward him. He grabbed the thin thread from Sami's chest. Tied it to the thick rope.
"In the name of the Creator of worlds, I bind this human's fate."
From the point of connection, a sharp light exploded. The thin thread and thick rope melted together. Became one. The room shook. Thunder without clouds.
Then the rope snapped in the middle.
The first end veered — entered Sami's chest. At this, Sami floated off the ground.
The second end disappeared into the air. Searching for where it would end.
—
At the same moment. In Sami's house.
Manar played with her doll. Making it ride the pink bike in her room. Nothing unusual. A child alone in her room.
Then — time stopped in Manar's room. A heavy silence descended, as if the air itself had turned to lead. Suddenly, the child broke free from gravity's hold, rising slowly with solemn grace, her eyes flying open wide — blank and terrifying. And as she rose, the pink bike she had been leaning against tilted, tipping over beside her with a muffled thud, as if the physical world was surrendering before this thread of light that had buried itself in her chest, binding her fate to Sami's in an unbreakable bond.
— End of Chapter 8 —