The Road Ahead

For a moment, Sayid forgot to breathe.

Omar's words settled over the table like a thick veil, pressing into the spaces between them. The firelight flickered, casting shadows across his sharp features. Mehri's fingers tensed around her cup, but she said nothing.

Sayid forced himself to speak. "What do you mean?" His voice came out steadier than he felt.

Omar merely raised an eyebrow, as if unimpressed by the question. "I mean exactly what I said."

Sayid clenched his fists. "That makes no sense. The manuscript took something from me. It wasn't a loan. It wasn't borrowed. It was mine."

Omar exhaled slowly, shaking his head. "You're still thinking of this as an exchange. As if the manuscript functions on the same rules as men." He leaned forward, voice lowering. "But what if I told you that what it took was never truly yours to begin with?"

Mehri stiffened beside him. Sayid's pulse hammered in his ears.

"That's impossible," he said. "It was—" He stopped himself.

Because he didn't know how to finish that sentence.

What had it taken? A memory? A piece of his soul? A fate that had once been his?

Omar studied him, waiting. Not with mockery, not with impatience—but with something worse. Amusement.

Sayid swallowed, his throat dry. "Then whose was it?"

Omar smiled. "Now that," he said, "is the real question."

And Sayid had the sinking feeling he wouldn't like the answer.

Sayid's world had always been one of certainties. The weight of his blade at his side. The scent of ink and parchment in his father's study. The unwavering truth that what was his could never be taken.

But now, sitting across from Omar ibn Rashid, watching the gleam of amusement in his calculating eyes, that certainty shattered.

"What do you mean it was never mine?" Sayid forced the words out, his voice tight.

Omar leaned forward slightly, resting his chin on interlocked fingers. "Exactly what I said."

Mehri shifted beside him, her fingers tapping against the ceramic rim of her cup. Sayid didn't need to look at her to know she was tense.

Omar continued, his tone smooth as silk. "What was taken from you was borrowed. A thing on loan, if you will. And the manuscript simply reclaimed what was owed."

Sayid felt a dull ache forming behind his temples. "That makes no sense."

Omar's smirk widened. "Then allow me to put it another way." He gestured lazily toward Sayid's wrist. "That mark. Do you feel weaker? Do you feel as if something essential has been stolen from you?"

Sayid clenched his jaw.

He didn't. Not in the way he had feared.

His body felt whole. His mind was intact. His memories, as far as he could tell, had not been touched.

And yet, something was missing.

Something he couldn't name.

"I see the conflict in your eyes," Omar murmured, tilting his head. "You know something is gone, but you cannot define it. That is the nature of borrowed things, Sayid ibn Rahman. We seldom realize they were never truly ours until they are taken."

Sayid exhaled through his nose. "Then what was it?"

Omar's expression darkened, amusement flickering into something more serious. "Ah, that is the question, isn't it?"

Sayid clenched his fists under the table. "You said you'd give me an answer."

Omar lifted his cup, drinking deeply before setting it down with a soft clink. Then, with deliberate slowness, he spoke.

"What was taken from you… was a memory."

Sayid's breath caught.

Mehri went completely still.

"A memory?" Sayid repeated, his voice dangerously quiet.

Omar nodded. "Not a trivial one, either. Not something like a childhood moment or the taste of a favorite dish." He leaned forward. "Something important. Something that defined you."

The words landed like a fist to the gut.

Sayid had assumed the manuscript had taken something physical, something measurable. But a memory?

That was far worse.

Because if he didn't even know what had been lost… how could he ever hope to reclaim it?

Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken questions.

Then Mehri spoke, her voice edged with something unreadable. "And how do we get it back?"

Omar smiled slightly. "That is a different question entirely."

Sayid exhaled sharply. "Then answer it."

Omar didn't respond right away. Instead, he reached into his robe and pulled out a small, folded parchment. He slid it across the table toward Sayid.

Sayid hesitated before picking it up. The paper was old, the edges frayed. As he unfolded it, his eyes scanned the contents—and his blood ran cold.

It was a list.

Names.

Most of them crossed out.

And at the very bottom, written in precise, dark ink—

Sayid ibn Rahman.

Sayid's fingers curled around the parchment. "What is this?"

Omar's voice was softer now. "A record of those who have encountered the manuscript. And what became of them."

Sayid's pulse pounded in his ears. He scanned the names again. Dozens of them.

Only one was left uncrossed.

His own.

Mehri leaned over to look, her expression unreadable. "What happened to the others?"

Omar didn't answer. He didn't have to.

Sayid already knew.

The realization settled like lead in his stomach.

He was the last one.

The only one still standing.

And that meant whatever had come for the others…

Would eventually come for him.

The tea house suddenly felt too small, the walls pressing inward. Sayid forced himself to breathe evenly, forcing his emotions into check.

"What happens now?" he asked, voice steady.

Omar studied him for a long moment. Then, finally, he spoke.

"That depends on you."

Sayid narrowed his eyes.

Omar leaned back. "You still have a choice, Sayid. You can walk away. Leave this all behind. Forget the memory that was stolen—after all, if you do not remember it, does it truly matter?"

Sayid felt Mehri's eyes on him. He didn't look at her.

Omar continued, "Or… you can do what no one before you has managed."

Sayid's jaw tightened. "And what's that?"

Omar smiled faintly. "Reclaim what was taken."

Sayid exhaled. His grip on the parchment tightened. "And how do I do that?"

Omar's smile faded. "That… is the difficult part."

Sayid waited.

"The manuscript does not simply erase," Omar said. "It transfers. It repurposes. If your memory was taken, then that means—somewhere, it still exists."

Sayid's pulse quickened. "Where?"

Omar's expression darkened. "That is what you must find out."

The words sent a shiver down Sayid's spine.

Somewhere out there—his stolen memory was waiting.

And if he wanted it back…

He would have to chase it down.

No matter what it cost.

---

The Road Ahead

They left the tea house as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the city in warm shades of gold and deepening blue.

Sayid walked in silence, the weight of everything settling heavily on his shoulders.

Mehri finally broke the quiet. "You're going after it, aren't you?"

Sayid didn't hesitate. "Yes."

Mehri sighed. "I figured."

She didn't try to stop him.

That was the thing about Mehri. She never wasted breath telling him what he couldn't do.

Instead, she asked, "Where do we start?"

Sayid glanced down at the parchment in his hand. The list of names. The lives that had been taken.

One by one.

If he was going to find his stolen memory, he needed to understand what had happened to them.

"We find someone who knew the others," he said.

Mehri nodded. "And when we do?"

Sayid looked up, eyes hard.

"Then we find the truth."

The night air was crisp. The city hummed with distant voices, unaware of the path that had just been set.

Sayid rolled his sleeve back down, hiding the mark.

He didn't know what had been taken from him.

But he would find out.

Even if it killed him.