Seven months passed like a slow-moving shadow across Syria Valley—gentle yet heavy, quiet yet unbearably present. Winter had come and gone, leaving behind frost-kissed mornings and long nights where the valley sighed in muted sorrow. The golden leaves of autumn had long surrendered to the ground, and even the ancient trees of the valley seemed to miss something… or someone.
And Syria felt it worst of all.
The emptiness that Ali left behind had not faded with time—it had deepened. She didn't understand why. She didn't understand what name to give the ache that sat quietly beneath her ribs. She told herself it was nothing. She told herself he was family, just a memory, just a passing moment.
But hearts do not obey logic.
Hearts obey echoes.
Syria turned seventeen in those months—another candle, another prayer whispered into the quiet sky. Everyone celebrated around her, but inside, something remained unsettled, like a song stuck on a single haunting note.
Ali's birthday was a month away. She tried not to think of it. She tried not to imagine his smile, or the soft gentleness in his voice, or the way the valley had hummed faintly when their eyes met for the last time.
But the valley remembered.
And so did she.
The Message That Broke the Stillness
Syria had never used a phone properly, but now her mother Huda trusted her with it—only briefly, only occasionally. Syria never cared for the device before. But that day, her fingers trembled strangely as she held it. Her heart beat too loudly, too recklessly.
A thought whispered through her mind.
A dangerous thought.
I could talk to him.
Her hands moved before she could stop them. She dialed the number she wasn't supposed to remember—but she had memorized the day Ali spoke it aloud in front of Yusra. She didn't know why she remembered it. She didn't know why it replayed in her mind every day since he left.
Her thumb hovered.
Her breath hitched.
She pressed send.
A single word left her heart.
Hi.
Then silence.
A silence that stretched into the night, into the next morning, into another day. Syria pretended she didn't care, but the valley knew better. She walked slower. She spoke softer. She looked at the phone as if waiting for it to breathe.
Ali, far away in the city, saw the message the next day.
A number he didn't recognize. A greeting he didn't expect.
He frowned at the screen.
Who?
That one word—cold to anyone else—hit Syria like a storm. She wasn't prepared. She wasn't ready. Her mind froze. Her heart stumbled.
Her fingers typed slowly.
It's Syria.
There was a pause. A long one.
Then the reply appeared like a breath she didn't realize she was holding.
Oh. How do you know my number?
The question made her panic for a moment. But she told him the truth, her words shy and uncertain.
You recited it… in front of Yusra. I just remembered.
Ali stared at her message longer than necessary. There was something innocent about it. Something oddly soft. Syria didn't realize her honesty touched him in a place he thought had been numbed forever.
He asked how she was.
She asked how he was.
Nothing more, nothing deep. But the valley hummed faintly—the first hum in seven months.
Destiny had been waiting.
Then Syria had to return her mother's phone, ending the conversation abruptly. Yet she couldn't stop smiling. Not a loud smile. A quiet one. A hidden one. A smile felt only in the heart.
That evening, she told Yusra.
Her first mistake.
Yusra listened with raised brows, her jealousy sharp and silent. Syria didn't see it. She never saw the storms people carried. She trusted too easily. She believed too gently.
And Yusra betrayed her before night even fell.
Secrets, Calls, and Confessions
The next day, Syria managed to text Ali again. This time, he replied faster. He asked how she was, but then added something unexpected:
Don't tell anyone I'm talking to you. Especially not Yusra.
Syria blinked at the screen.
"Why?" she whispered into the empty room.
He explained in short messages. About the strange tension between Yusra's maternal side and his. About the rivalry. The jealousy. The whispered comparisons. The long history neither of them wanted to repeat.
And then he said something else:
I know Yusra doesn't like you much. Be careful.
Syria stared at the message for a long time. She didn't know what shocked her more—that Ali understood Yusra better than she did, or that he cared enough to warn her.
Their conversations grew longer.
An hour every day.
Soft at first, then sincere.
Syria asked him about life. About the city. About relationships. The question slipped out without planning:
Do you… have a girlfriend?
A long silence followed.
Then a message.
No. She cheated on me.
For a moment, Syria felt something heavy in her throat. Sadness? Sympathy? Something else she couldn't name? Ali had never shared something so personal with anyone in the valley. Yet he told her. He trusted her.
She saved every message like they were fragile flowers pressed between pages.
And she told everything to Anaya.
Anaya listened with the excitement of someone watching a story unfold. She wasn't like Yusra. She didn't burn with jealousy—she glowed with hope.
"Do you love him?" Anaya teased gently.
"No!" Syria said too quickly. "I just… he's a friend. A good friend."
Anaya smiled knowingly. "Your heart knows something you don't."
Syria didn't argue. She didn't know how to.
The Sister Who Saw Too Much
Days passed. Weeks folded into each other. Syria's world was changing quietly, secretly. A world hidden in text messages. A world made of small smiles, unspoken comfort, and long conversations that made time feel shorter.
Then one evening, everything shattered.
Syria's elder sister returned home after months of studying away. She found Syria sitting on the bed, cheeks pink, fingers curled protectively around their mother's phone.
"Syria," she called sharply. "Give me the phone."
Syria froze.
She didn't move.
Her sister stepped forward, snatched the phone from her hand, and looked at the screen.
A message was open.
Ali's name at the top.
His words glowing clearly.
Her sister's face changed.
Her eyes hardened.
The room grew colder.
"Syria," she said in a voice that shook Syria's bones, "what are you doing?"
Fear surged through Syria—raw, choking fear.
She wasn't allowed to talk to boys. Not even cousins. Not even through borrowed phones. Not in their family's rules. She knew this. She had broken something sacred, something unspoken.
Her sister's voice rose, not in anger, but in disappointment—something far worse.
"You've been talking to him? For how long? Why?"
Syria couldn't speak.
Her throat closed.
Her hands trembled.
The valley outside grew silent, as if listening with bated breath.
In that moment, destiny paused.
Waiting.
Watching.
Knowing that what happened next would change everything.