At four o'clock in the morning, someone knocked on the door.
She stood up, her legs numb, leaning against the door frame as she slowly stood straight. The door opened, and the person standing outside wasn't Malik. It was three people wearing black suits, no hats, no military insignias, faces covered with masks, only their eyes showing.
"Malik Hassan's mother?"
Her heart sank. "He—what happened to him?"
The person in the middle took a photograph from his pocket and handed it to her. She accepted it and glanced at it. In the photo, a young man lay on the ground, a hole in his chest, eyes open, staring at the sky.
She recognized that face. It was her son's face. The face she'd waited nine years for.
Her legs gave way, sliding down the door frame slowly, the photograph slipped from her hands onto the ground. The three men in black suits turned and left, their leather shoes clattering on the stone path, further and further away.
