Arif guards were searching Amaya everywhere, in the city, in the village. When Amaya come to know that Arif has killed Arman and his Guards are searching her, she went to another city.
The city of Arghabad, was very busy and noisy. It is always full of crowd. Amaya start selling her paintings over there.
But she never forgot Arman. He was still in her heart and of course in her paintings too.
People admired her art but never noticed the secret she carried.
Though time softened her pain, she never forgot Arman.
She spoke to him at night when she was alone.
"I'm still here. I'm free, like you wanted. But I miss you so much."
One day, she was painting in a busy marketplace.
A little girl stopped to stare.
"Miss, why is there always a man in your paintings?"
Amaya smiled softly, eyes glistening.
"Because he saved me. And he's with me everywhere I go."
The little girl beamed.
"That's so romantic!"
Amaya laughed—a sound she hadn't heard from herself in so long.
She felt the wind pick up, cherry blossom petals swirling even in this new city where there were no cherry trees.
She closed her eyes and imagined it was Arman sending her a sign.
"I love you too," she whispered.
One day, Amaya set up her little stall in a new village she'd never seen before.
As she painted quietly, a gentle old man stopped and watched her work.
He frowned at the river in her painting, the figure sitting alone by its bank.
"Excuse me, miss," he said softly. "That man in your picture... he looks familiar."
Amaya froze. Her brush trembled.
"What do you mean?" she whispered, barely daring to hope.
The old man squinted at the painting.
"Years ago, I met a wanderer who looked like him. He used to write poems about a girl he lost. He said she had hair like black silk and eyes full of stars."
Amaya felt her heart crack open, raw and tender.
"Arman," she breathed, tears flooding her eyes.
The old man nodded slowly.
"That was his name. He was hurt when he got here, half-dead, but he wrote poetry for days. He gave me one of his pages before he left again. I still have it."
Amaya's hands shook as she reached out.
"Please... please can I see it?"
The old man rummaged in his satchel and pulled out a folded, yellowed paper.
She opened it carefully.
It was a short poem in shaky handwriting:
Run,Lina.Run and live.
Your freedom is my promise.
If you see cherry blossoms, know I am there.
If you hear the river, know I love you still.
Amaya pressed it to her heart, sobbing in the middle of the busy street.
"He... he wanted me to be free so badly," she whispered.
The old man patted her shoulder kindly.
"He loved you more than life. Don't waste his gift."
Amaya clutched the poem to her chest, crying so hard she shook.
But the old man hesitated.
"Miss... there's something else I didn't tell you."
Amaya sniffled, looking up at him with wide, wet eyes.
"What?"
The old man glanced around nervously, then leaned closer.
"He didn't die. Not really."
Amaya's heart stopped.
"What do you mean?! she gasped.
"When he left my village, he was badly wounded. He wouldn't say how. But he refused to die. He just kept mumbling your name."
Amaya's whole body trembled.
"Where did he go?"
The old man looked sad.
"He said he couldn't go back to you. He thought you deserved better. He was going east, to the mountains. Said he wanted to become strong enough to protect you next time."
Amaya's heart thundered in her chest.
"He's alive," she whispered in wonder.
She wiped her tears fiercely.
"I have to find him. I have to."
The old man squeezed her hand.
"Then go. Don't waste time."
Amaya packed up her paints that very night. She left the village before dawn, heading east—toward the mountains, hope burning in her chest for the first time in years.
"I'm coming, Arman," she promised the wind.
"Wait for me."