His days are lakes,
his memory floating bodies.

— Adonis

The dawn has barely cracked when sleep leaves him. He opens his eyes slowly, feeling as if he's floating in the air. This must be the drugs, he thinks.

His gaze collides with the darkness of the hospital room and instantly his heartbeat picks speed. He pushes up himself urgently and groans at the pain piercing his bones and skin, making him fall back down.

"Burq?"

Her voice sounds as if coming from a distant memory, yet it feels near. It soothes the ache in his vein. He's not alone.

"Leyla?"

She appears beside him and touches his forearm lightly. He can barely trace her figure. "I'm here."

"It's so dark," he points out, sounding almost scared. He shushes his heart. "Can you turn on a lamp?"

"Of course."

She goes to turn on one in the corner, the dim golden glow illuminating little but enough. He looks at her, finally able to see her.

She's standing near a prayer mat lying beside the wall. Burq frowns at her.

"What are you doing?" he asks, regretting his question right away. It's clear she was praying. "I'm sorry," he apologizes quickly, "for disturbing you."

She smiles and shakes her head. "I was done anyways."

He watches her pick up the prayer mat and loosens her headscarf. It's only them in the room, and he notices how she's easy around him— guarded with her words, but not with her body. This brings queries to his mind.

He then thinks: when was the last time he prayed?

"The doctor told me you were in pain last evening and they had to sedate you," she speaks, interrupting his thoughts. "How are you feeling now?"

"Better," he replies. "Does it mean I still can't go home?"

The possibility worries him. This room always feels like closing in on him. He wants escape.

"We'll know today after getting your reports," Leyla tells him, coming to sit on the chair beside him. The scarf slips down her head, resting on her shoulders, and the stray strands of her hair come forward to graze her cheeks. Burq blinks.

"When did you come?"

"Late in the evening."

"My butler told me you had to leave for work."

Something glimmers in her orbs. "You asked him for me?"

Burq refrains from scoffing. This woman was thinking too high of herself.

"He told me himself," he answers briefly but truthfully, avoiding getting into this discussion. There was no way he himself would've asked Waleed about a random woman who meant nothing to him. Not even if he was curious.

Leyla only nods and smiles. Her smile— it appears kind. But her eyes tell other stories, those of demons in late winter nights and people lost in the cold. It doesn't terrify him, but alerts him. She's something more.

"You don't have to be with me only for the sake of our friendship. You've only known me for three months," Burq begins, subtle, trying to slip into the cracks and fill gaps. "I don't think it's enough."

He notices her shoulders stiffen, only slightly, but the smile on her lips remains to deceive. "I know, but don't worry. None of this makes you in debt to me."

"But why this generosity?"

She leans closer. "I owe you for your kindness towards me."

The lines between his eyebrows show his puzzlement. He stares at her. The last thing he could consider calling himself can be kind, and it doesn't make him remorseful, just wary of his dormant conscience. "May I know this kindness?"

"You may not," she flat-out refuses. "At least not now."

Her response irritates him. He doesn't like her playing games with him, avoiding telling him everything about herself. He wants to know how they really are connected— the full back story. Because the sane and logical part of him is not ready to accept she's doing everything out of good will. Unless whatever he did for her must be pretty big.

Although with his memory gone, she could easily have abandoned him. But she didn't. Why?

"I'll tell you everything in time, I promise," she says, as if understanding his thoughts. His brows furrow, displeased at being read. Then again as if looking through him, her lips pull back into a grin. "You've very expressive eyes, Burq. They give away your emotions."

He doesn't know if it's a compliment or not, but some of his tension leaves him at her words. His taut muscles relax a little and the corner of his mouth twitches upward.

"That makes me transparent, does it not?" he ponders loudly, ironically.

Leyla hums, letting their gazes battle. "It makes you alive."

Even with the color of honey and the warmth of sun in your eyes, they scares me sometimes, azizi.

Leyla's way of seeing him is so different than hers— than his now sister-in-law. There's a feeling like a thorn pricking something within his chest but he's quick to dismiss it, focusing back on Leyla.

"Did you finish reading your book?" he asks, steering the conversation to a distracting topic. "What was it called, To Kill a Mockingbird?"

She nods. "I did."

"Did it have a good ending?"

Leyla seems to consider his question before replying, her unamused expression confusing him. "It had a realistic ending."

He raises one eyebrow. "So that's good, right?"

Her smile returns, but now there's a hidden indignation behind it. "Maybe. But realistic is sad, Burq. That's why we prefer fantasies."

"And what was sad about this realistic ending?"

"The fact that justice couldn't be served because people worship discriminations more than God." Her words have venom; she hisses when she speaks.

He stares at her a long moment before replying, "That's the way of life."

She chuckles, looking sly. "That's why the way of death is bitter, for materialism never was supposed to be the way of life."

He stares at her, hard. She stares back, harder. If his eyes are really as expressive as she said, she can probably interpret the disapproval in them. Foolish woman, he thinks. How dissimilar are their ideas. How did they even become friends?

Once again, he refrains from scoffing. Had she known the standards of the ideal world are confined to the pages of books, and real world barely ever reflect the ideal image, she wouldn't be philosophical here with him. But then again, she seems more like a person who would rather read another book than provide him company. Then why is he even talking to her? Frankly, he wouldn't be only if he could walk on his legs and not be lying here on the hospital bed, forced to see the ugly side of life.

He heaves a sigh and looks away from her, out of the window to the slowly coloring sky. He hates the night, and he hates the dark it brings with itself. He always feels like sinking into the black of an ocean every time. It bothers him. Night is dangerous.

So is this woman, Leyla, whose name coincidentally translates into night. And an even unsettling coincidence is how she carries the meaning of her name within her self. It doesn't appeal to him, not one bit.

Doha was never like her. Her name translated into day; her smile brought him light; and her eyes were a fainter shade than Leyla's, unlike night. She was brilliant and her words were easy, like a summer breeze. Leyla confuses him, complicates his thought process, and even warns him with her smiles. This woman with him now is so different than the one from his past, and he's not a man to live in ladies' company— never had been. He has known only a very few, and Leyla compares to none. Although he's not sure why he is even comparing her with anyone he has ever known. He tries to rid of the pictures.

Doha is no more his lover, but his sister-in-law now. And to ever consider risking his heart again, he would have to retrieve it first before jumping back into the abyss of love. The problem: there was now only despair for him there and no hope.

"Burq?"

He shifts his attention back to Leyla, but doesn't speak. He likes the concern with which she says his name, and he doesn't like this fact. Like Doha, she could very well be faking and acting, until a time when she can't anymore. He doesn't want to grieve anymore.

"Should I get something to eat for you?" she asks.

"No."

"Ain't you hungry?"

"No."

Silence.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Leyla purses her lips, looking at him questioningly. Burq avoids her eyes.

"Did I say something to offend you?"

He replies after a moment, "No."

"Why are you speaking in mono syllables to me?"

He stares down at his leg, the cast, swallowing. "I was just thinking."

Leyla brushes back her hair from her face and his gaze flicks to her. "Do you want me to leave?"

"No," he forbids a little too eagerly, wincing mentally at his response. But his answer brings back her smile.

"Well, what were you thinking about, if you don't mind telling me?"

"Can you help me sit up a little?" he requests instead.

She nods and stands up, coming to adjust his bed and pillow. Few of her strands come loose of her bun, skimming his skin. He breathes slowly, tilting away his face.

"Is this better?" Leyla asks.

"Yes," he affirms before groaning.

"Are you hurting?"

"My neck is just stiff."

She reaches out to touch his neck, mindless of her action, and his sight snaps to her, fixing her. The proximity between them has his pupils dilating, while she seems oblivious to the scene unfolding. Why is she acting as if nothing is the matter? Why is she acting all familiar with him? He wonders if he should address the matter but with her face inches away from his has his logistics disarrayed. She presses the pads of her fingers against his nape and shoulders and his head lulls back in pleasure.

"This must be from lying down in the same position all the time," she comments.

"The only position I can lie in is on my back, and that has me going numb." His voice is gruff as he speaks.

"I'll ask Waleed to help you shift so it won't hurt anymore."

"I don't want to depend on my servants."

She looks at him, eyes voicing displeasure. "Then just consider him your friend, not servant."

"That's not who he actually is to me."

"It depends on how you view people."

"And I'm telling you how I view him."

"Then that's very petty of you."

He grinds his teeth at her remark. "Are you asking me to belittle myself for him?"

She pulls away from him, and for a fraction of a second he misses her touch. Wrong things to say to a fantasy world woman, he realizes. But he isn't ashamed of being honest in his opinion.

"I'm asking you to be good."

"You mean to say I'm not good?"

"I mean to say you don't have to be proud."

"I'm not proud, although I've plenty of reasons to be."

"Then you're just being bitter."

His eyes narrow into slits, staring daggers at her. She returns his expressions passively, crossing her arms, displeased.

"You barely know me to say so," he retorts after a minute.

"Indeed. But it doesn't take much to see how your clarity is veiled by your pride. For I never asked you to belittle yourself but not to belittle the man serving you, or anyone for that matter."

He raises an eyebrow at her, accusatory. "Why do you care so much for my servant?"

She leans back down over him, staring straight at him, unblinking. "I don't, God does. And this fact alone should worry you enough." She glances down at his casted leg before straightening, meaningfully holding his eyes. He doesn't respond. He cannot.

He watches her walk to the couch and pick up her bag. Giving him one last look, she leaves. And he's once again left to himself, waiting, until his butler lightly knocks on the door and comes inside.

"Good morning, your lordship. How are you feeling today?" Waleed asks.

He's a man in his late twenties, almost around his own age. Burq observes him for a moment. He has been with him for a few years now, and he's good in his work, yet Burq barely knows anything about the man. He just never considered befriending him. He still cannot.

Dismissing his greeting and question, Burq motions him closer and Waleed steps forward.

"I need to ask you something, and I expect you to be truthful with me."

Waleed put his hand over his heart. "Of course, my lord. What is it?"

Burq tips his head to the side, his irises shinning with an untamed curiosity. "Leyla," he says, "what do you know about her?"

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