JIDDAH

He sat beneath a worn-out mat, confined within a small, cell-like room reminiscent of a prison. A housekeeper approached the young boy, his hands bound, and placed a set of keys in the boy’s pocket. Unlocking the door, he gazed inside at the man and exclaimed, “Sir, you are free now. Congratulations!” He delivered the message with genuine joy, avoiding eye contact with the man, as he wanted to convey the happiness of freedom through his voice and demeanor.

The man inside slowly rose, a smile on his face, mingled with exhaustion, as if he were on the verge of tears. He stood up, straightening his posture, and stepped out of the cramped room. The commotion around him went unnoticed as he made his way towards the prison’s main gate. Once outside, he closed his eyes and breathed in the city air, a sensation he hadn’t experienced in a long time. He continued walking until he reached the gate, his head held high, though the noise around him was becoming unbearable. He pressed his hand to his forehead to quell the growing headache and continued towards the gate.

A female journalist among the crowd couldn’t help but notice him. He wore three-quarter pants and a white short-sleeved t-shirt that accentuated his dark skin. Bright tattoos adorned his broad chest and the side of his neck. Her gaze lingered on him as he passed by, and she couldn’t resist approaching him.

“I’m FEEYA. Can you tell us how you ended up in Reseled’s jail?” she inquired, her curiosity evident.

He frowned, then slowly opened his mouth, revealing thick red lips, and retorted, “None of your business.” With that, he made his way to a sleek black car with the license plate reading IRFAN MAI FATA 2, waiting for him. The car belonged to Aryan, who greeted him warmly, handing over the car keys. “Congratulations on your release from prison, my friend,” Aryan said while patting him on the back. As he settled into the car, he noticed the crowd shouting, “Sir IRFAN, congratulations!” But there was no response from him as they pulled the car away, racing back towards the prison.

—

*Jiddah’s Perspective (Jiddah POV)*

She stood, getting ready for work, clad in a dress that accentuated her figure. Her white eyes gazed into the mirror, and she smiled, her lulu eyes sparkling. The door to the room swung open, and her face showed mild irritation as she turned to face the uninvited guest.

“JIDDAH, are you still here?” she asked, observing Jiddah’s uninvited presence. Jiddah, with nothing better to do, decided to chime in.

“Hurry up, dear. They’ll be here any minute,” Jiddah urged.

Rolling her eyes, the young woman dismissed any talk of marriage. She shook her head and continued looking into the mirror, adjusting her glasses. Then, she playfully imitated a man’s voice, adding a humorous touch, “Daddy, I can’t marry this girl. I don’t like her anymore, and she’s blind.”

She chuckled as she adjusted her glasses once more before taking a deep breath. “What you need to understand is, if you keep resisting marriage, no one will want to marry your blind daughter.”

—

*IRFAN’s Perspective (IRFAN POV)*

They arrived in front of a grand house, and Aryan, the house’s guard, opened the gate. The car nosed its way into the compound, and once parked, the driver’s door opened. IRFAN stepped out of the car, his large eyes filled with wonder. Aryan chuckled and greeted him, saying, “Welcome to your house, IRFAN.” IRFAN bit his lip and proceeded towards the door leading inside the house.

Aryan pulled out a small remote control from his pocket and pressed it, causing the glass door to slide open. They entered together, heading for the refrigerator. Though Aryan appeared somewhat somber, he refrained from saying anything. IRFAN closed his eyes and let out a weary sigh.

“How are my devils?” he inquired as he reached for a bottle of wine. Aryan glanced at him but remained silent. He opened the bottle and was about to take a swig when Aryan spoke up.

“Irfan, think about your father. He wouldn’t approve of this habit,” Aryan cautioned.

IRFAN looked at Aryan without responding. “Your father needs you,” Aryan added.

IRFAN’s expression changed, and he turned to face Aryan. “Don’t ever mention that name. How is my father? I don’t have a father anymore. I’m an orphan,” he declared, attempting to bring the beer bottle to his lips. Aryan tightened his grip on it and said, “Your father needs your love, nothing else.”

IRFAN grabbed Aryan’s hand, raising it to his mouth, and said, “Don’t call him that. My father is dead.” He emphasized his words, trying to convey the finality of his decision.