Chapter 27: The Thread

It wasn't the kind of place that held stories.

Not at first glance. Just brick and dust and the sound of distant pipes groaning somewhere above the ceiling.

But safety has a way of shifting the way you see things.

Arwa woke first.

She didn't remember falling asleep — just curling into herself on the cot, one breath after another, until sleep pulled her under like a tide.

Now, the world was still.

Not quiet — she could hear the faint hum of the old generator, the occasional creak of wood expanding — but still in that way that let her body soften for the first time in days.

She sat up. Her joints ached. Not from injury. Just from holding too much too long.

Zayaan was asleep in the corner, one arm bent behind his head, the other resting loosely over his chest. Still in his boots. Still ready to run if he had to.

Arwa stood. Slowly. Quietly.

She wasn't snooping — not really — but she felt like an intruder anyway as she drifted toward the shelves against the wall.

Old supplies. Tools. A few data chips in coded cases.

And then — something softer, almost hidden.

A folded cloth, wedged between two cracked boxes. She pulled it free.

It was a scarf.

Dark green. Worn. Edges fraying. It smelled faintly of smoke... and something sweet -cinnamon, maybe. Her fingers froze on the fabric. Something about the pattern...almost like henna lines, looping and trailing in uneven swirls — hit somewhere too deep.

She pressed it to her face without thinking.

And that's when it happened.

A flicker. A memory not of a place, but a moment.

She was standing in a hallway. Cold walls. Lights flickering overhead. A man's voice — Zayaan's — raised, but not angry. Urgent.

"If they trace you back to me...it's over."

She was holding the scarf in her hands.

"Then burn it."

"I'm not burning the last thing that smells like you."

Back in the present, her hands clenched the fabric like it might slip away again.

She turned.

Zayaan was watching her now — not surprised. Just… waiting.

"You kept it," she said.

He nodded.

"Didn't know why. Just… couldn't throw it out."

Arwa looked down.

"I remember giving it to you. I remember you didn't want to take it."

"Yeah. You always gave things too easily. Even when you were scared."

Something about the way he said it made her throat tighten...

But then — footsteps.

Not inside.

Outside.

Just one pair. Light. Careful.

Zayaan was up in a second, crossing to the monitor, scanning the black-and-white feed from the one external sensor they'd rigged.

A girl. Young. No weapon.

Arwa moved beside him. The image was grainy, but there was something too familiar in the tilt of the head, the cautious way she scanned the door before knocking once — soft...fast...like a code.

Arwa's breath caught.

"That's… Kiran," she whispered.

Zayaan turned to her, brows raised.

"You remember her?"

She nodded, slowly. "She was like a sister. Not blood. But closer."

Another knock. Then silence.

Zayaan hesitated.

"Trap?"

"No," Arwa said before she could think twice. "She wouldn't."

He looked at her again, longer this time — weighing the risk, reading her face.

Then he nodded. "Okay. Let's let her in."