The First Thread

The night air carried the scent of dust and spice, the streets of Almaran dimly lit by scattered lanterns. Sayid walked in silence, Mehri beside him, the weight of Omar's words still pressing against his mind.

A memory.

It wasn't just something lost. It was something taken. And if what Omar said was true, then it was still out there—somewhere.

Mehri exhaled sharply. "So, what now?"

Sayid turned the parchment over in his hands. The ink was faded in places, the names written with an almost reverent precision. He traced his finger along the list, stopping just before his own name.

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

Mehri frowned. "Most of them are dead."

"But not all."

Her eyes flicked to the list, scanning the crossed-out names. "You think someone might have survived?"

Sayid nodded. "Omar said I was the only one left. But that doesn't mean the others disappeared overnight. Someone must remember them."

Mehri clicked her tongue. "And you think someone in Almaran will just hand over information about a bunch of scholars and scribes who were probably erased from history?"

Sayid looked up. "If the right price is offered."

She sighed. "So, we're bribing people now?"

Sayid smirked faintly. "Knowledge is a currency."

Mehri huffed but didn't argue.

The two walked in silence through the narrow streets, past the closed market stalls and shuttered windows. Even at night, Almaran never truly slept. The faint murmur of voices drifted from the upper levels of teahouses, and distant footsteps echoed through the alleys.

Sayid's mind wandered as they moved. What kind of memory had been taken? Something personal? A secret he had uncovered? Or something that was never meant to be known?

And if he found it… would he even recognize it?

His grip on the parchment tightened.

No. He couldn't think like that.

He had to find it.

For a moment, the weight of the mark on his wrist felt heavier.

---

The First Thread

Their first stop was a quiet bookshop near the city's eastern quarter. It wasn't marked by any sign, just a simple wooden door tucked between two larger buildings. Mehri knocked twice, pausing before knocking once more.

The door creaked open a few inches. A single dark eye peered out. "We're closed."

Mehri smirked. "That's funny. We haven't even told you what we're here for."

The door hesitated before opening fully, revealing a wiry man wrapped in a thick shawl. His face was weathered, his beard streaked with silver. "You shouldn't be here at this hour."

Sayid stepped forward. "We're looking for someone."

The man narrowed his eyes. "That's not my business."

Sayid unfolded the parchment, holding it up. "Do any of these names mean something to you?"

The man's gaze flickered across the list. Then—just for a second—something changed in his expression.

Recognition.

Sayid caught it immediately.

"You do know something," he pressed.

The man hesitated, then stepped back, motioning for them to enter. "Inside. Quickly."

Sayid and Mehri exchanged glances before slipping through the door.

Inside, the shop smelled of ink and old parchment. Scrolls and bound manuscripts lined the walls, stacked in uneven piles. A single oil lamp flickered on a wooden table, casting shadows across the cramped space.

The man shut the door, locking it behind them. "You shouldn't be asking about these names."

Sayid didn't back down. "Why?"

The man studied him carefully. "Because the last person who did disappeared two nights later."

Mehri crossed her arms. "And you didn't think that was worth mentioning before letting us in?"

The man ignored her, turning back to Sayid. "Where did you get that list?"

Sayid hesitated before answering. "Omar ibn Rashid."

The man exhaled sharply. "Of course he's involved."

Sayid stepped closer. "You knew the people on this list, didn't you?"

The man's eyes flicked toward the parchment again, lingering on one name in particular. Sayid followed his gaze.

Nadim al-Khorasani.

The name wasn't crossed out.

Sayid's pulse quickened. "He's still alive, isn't he?"

The bookseller didn't answer.

Mehri took a step forward. "If you don't tell us where he is, someone else will."

The man sighed, rubbing his temple. "You don't understand. If Nadim is alive, it's because he doesn't want to be found."

Sayid's jaw tightened. "Then we'll make him want to."

The bookseller hesitated, then finally spoke. "If you're looking for him… you'll find your answer in the old quarter. Near the house of painted doors."

Sayid frowned. "That's not a place."

The bookseller smirked faintly. "Then I guess you'll have to figure it out."

---

The House of Painted Doors

By the time they left the bookshop, the moon was high above them. Mehri pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, shaking her head. "I hate cryptic answers."

Sayid didn't respond. He was already piecing together the information.

The old quarter.

A house with painted doors.

He had spent enough time in forgotten cities and ruined archives to know that names often carried hidden meanings.

They walked through the winding streets, the city quieter now. Mehri glanced at him. "You're thinking."

Sayid smirked. "Dangerous habit."

She snorted. "No argument there."

They passed a row of abandoned buildings, their doorways sealed with thick wooden planks. Sayid's eyes flicked to the remnants of faded paint near the edges.

Something clicked.

"This is it," he murmured.

Mehri frowned. "This?"

Sayid stepped closer, running his fingers along the edge of a doorway. Underneath the dust and decay, traces of color remained—faint but still visible.

Layers of paint.

Dozens of colors.

The house of painted doors.

Mehri exhaled. "You've got to be kidding me."

Sayid pressed his hand against the wood. It didn't feel abandoned.

Someone still lived here.

And if Nadim al-Khorasani was inside…

Then Sayid was one step closer to the truth.