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❝Angels don't lie, but you do. If I'm a devil, what are you?❞
When Burq loses his memory in an accident and doesn't remember his own wife anymore, Leyla finds it a chance to escape her beastly husband and pretends to be his friend...
And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on.
— Lord Byron
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He stares at the spines of the books in the bookshelf with an empty mind. His gaze sails across each, followed by his agile fingers touching them one by one, until he finds the one Leyla had picked up randomly that day she was narrating the story of Adam and Hawwa to him— that day when she told him who she was to him.
Taking the book with him, he walks out of his study room towards his patio. The snow isn't falling, but the atmosphere is freezing. Soon, winter will dissolve into spring and he cannot wait for the season to change. He cannot enjoy winter with his splinted leg anyways. But then again, he'll be getting rid of this cast soon too.
He flips open the book. Instead of choosing from his mother's history books collection that day, she had picked up a poetry book of his. A smile tugs at his lips. He traces the alphabets with his fingers before reading them out loud:
"Kill me and burn me / Among my perishing bones / then pass my remains / Among the ruined graves," he looks up at the sky, finishing, "You will find my love's secret."
For a very long time, his eyes wander in the sky aimlessly, searching for something unknown— something invisible. He keeps pondering about the things he hasn't ever thought of before, sending his mind into unrest. Then he looks down and starts reading another poem:
"You glide between the heart and its casings as tears glide from the eyelid," he pauses, adjusting his glasses. "You dwell in my inwardness, in the depths of my heart, as souls dwell in bodies," he pauses again, repeating the words, before proceeding, "Nothing passes from rest to motion unless you move it in hidden ways." He smiles again and closes the book. "Oh new moon."
He tosses his head back, closing his eyes as his bangs fall over them. There's a chaos within his chest, a misorder in his musings. What is this love the poet talks about? What is this peace Leyla carries? Do they not feel pain?
What is this ache in every beat of his heart? What is this agony flowing in his veins? He feels as if his soul is missing a lot of vital pieces. He feels incomplete.
Waleed clears his throat before coming to place a tray in front of him on the table. "Your tea, my lord."
He opens his eyes and looks at him. "She didn't call again?"
Waleed lowers his gaze apologetically. "No, my lord."
"Sit with me, Waleed," Burq asks him, sitting straighter himself.
Waleed sits on the chair besides him, filling a teacup for Burq. Burq motions for him to fill one for himself too.
"Do you read poetry, Waleed?"
Waleed looks at him, a little taken aback by the casual question. "Not much, my lord. But I've read some."
Burq gesture towards the book he's holding. "Have you read of Mansur Al Hallaj?"
