He didn't know how to name the ache anymore. It wasn't pain?it was quieter, older, like something carved into his bones. Since seeing her again, Omar moved through Al-Qarif like a man chasing his own ghost. He prayed harder, not out of peace but desperation. In sujood, he whispered, "Ya Allah, take this from my chest if it's not written for me." But there was only silence.

At night, her absence hollowed the air. He didn't sleep?only stared at the ceiling, hearing her voice in memories that refused to fade. Sometimes, he walked back to the same street where she said his name, just in case the wind brought her again.

He wasn't angry. Just tired. He no longer asked for reunion, only that he not forget her voice?because forgetting would mean she was never real.

He didn't chase the world. He stood still, letting the sun set on what was never meant for him.