With a long holiday weekend stretching before her, Anisa's mind turned to a task she had long avoided: opening Zayan's old trunk. The desire had been there, simmering, but always pushed aside. Finally, the day had come. đŒ
She brought the heavy trunk down from the top of the wardrobe, found the slightly rusted key, and after a moment's struggle, lifted the creaking lid. The smell of aged paper and dust greeted her.
Inside were files, the deed to the business property, and various documents. She pulled out a thick, red portfolio and opened it. đ
Inside were pencil sketches. Dozens of them. All of the same woman, captured in various poses and moods. Smiling pensively, looking away with a serious gaze, laughing. The lines were confident, intimate, capturing not just her likeness but her essence. Anisa stared, and with a cold, sinking clarity, she recognized the subject: Zahra.
Her breath hitched. The evidence, so personal and artful, was more devastating than any photograph. It spoke of time spent, of observation, of a fascination translated onto paper by her own husband's hand. Tears, hot and unbidden, welled up and spilled over before she could stop them. They fell silently, spotting the sketches and the folder on her lap. đȘ
With trembling hands, she gathered the drawings back into the portfolio, closed it, and returned it to the trunk as if sealing a coffin. She locked it and pushed it back into its place, the action feeling futile against the truth now burning inside her.
She went to the bathroom, splashed cold water on her face, and tried to wash away the sting of betrayal. Then, mechanically, she moved to the kitchen. Lunch had to be made for herself and her in-laws. Her sister-in-law offered some half-hearted, performative help, which Anisa accepted in silence. Regardless of their hollow support, the duties of the house fell to her, and she performed them with a numb, dogged determination, using the mundane tasks as a fragile barrier against the emotional storm the red portfolio had unleashed.đ