C9 - The twins

"Lei, do you have any recommendations for potential investments in restaurants, hotels, and hospitals?"

Haya's voice was soft yet deliberate, her gaze fixed on her plate.

It was a sun-drenched Sunday afternoon, the golden light cascading over our home as we gathered by the poolside for a leisurely barbecue. The scent of grilled delicacies hung in the air, carried by a light breeze. My parents commanded the grill with effortless expertise, while my aunts and cousins either relaxed by the pool or lent a hand.

Seated beneath the shade of our large wooden dining table—a fixture fit for a family—I found myself in the company of my younger siblings. Just twelve meters away, the cerulean pool shimmered like liquid sapphire.

"A restaurant?" I looked between Haya and Yara, the twins seated across from me. Their gazes, like their personalities, were strikingly different.

"We love food," Yara spoke first, nudging Haya gently. "And Haya's passion for creating it runs even deeper."

Haya met my eyes, silent yet expectant. In her gaze, I saw stars—distant yet bright, quietly burning with purpose.

Five years ago, when my advanced studies began, the twins and I had also embarked on a culinary journey under our mother's guidance. What started as a simple day of experimentation turned into something more—an unplanned but memorable experience filled with laughter, flour-dusted hands, and the surprise of success.

Cooking had never been my passion, but over time, it grew on me. After mastering the fundamentals, I continued learning alongside Mom and Haya, while Yara, ever practical, was content with the basics.

Now, as I studied them across the table, I saw how much they had grown.

Gone were the small, chubby, and often tearful little bunnies of our childhood. In their place stood two young women—slender yet strong, poised yet playful. Their long, snow-white hair cascaded down their backs, their lashes strikingly prominent, framing eyes that mirrored mine—a delicate blue, like the endless sky.

Their faces bore the elegance of our mother's lineage—a straight, dignified nose, plump and lively lips, features that had once been soft with childhood but were now sculpted with youthful grace.

Familiar, yet distinct.

Even in their mischief, their eyes revealed their differences—Yara's gaze sparkled with mischief, while Haya's held a quiet, profound depth. Their personalities reflected their stares, each carrying a unique charm.

So young, yet they already radiated a presence that demanded attention.

And as their elder brother, it was my duty to protect them.

A year ago, their curiosity had turned toward business. Given their age and interests, I introduced them to online ventures, letting them explore at their own pace.

It didn't take long for them to launch their first business. Within six months, they had earned more than some professionals did in years. And in another six months? They sold their company to a major corporation—a decision as strategic as it was profitable.

Restaurants and hotels made sense. Our family's love for fine dining and travel had always been undeniable. Establishing our own spaces—both for pleasure and as profitable investments—seemed like a natural evolution.

But a hospital? That part intrigued me.

I turned toward Haya, who had remained quietly contemplative.

And when I met her gaze, I understood. 

Her expression held tenderness, affection—an unspoken acknowledgment of our bond.

Then, shifting my attention toward our parents—still by the grill, laughing softly as they worked side by side—I noticed the way Haya's expression subtly shifted.

Her eyes darkened.

"Our parents are getting older," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "Having a hospital nearby would be a practical advantage. Private rooms, designed for our family's comfort, would ease their burden. If the facility were within a hundred-meter radius of our home, they wouldn't have to suffer the stress of long commutes during emergencies."

Their maturity never failed to catch me off guard.

Just yesterday, they were children, laughing in my shadow, running to me for comfort. And now, they were here—thinking ahead, planning for the future, making decisions with wisdom beyond their years.

It was almost overwhelming.

But more than anything, in that moment, I felt one thing above all—grateful.

Grateful to be their brother. Grateful to watch them grow.

And above all, grateful that no matter how much they changed, we were still, undeniably, family.