55. WAITING FOR THE LETTER

The soft glow of dawn filtered through the curtains of Murad's bedroom, casting a gentle light on the room's rich, dark wood furnishings. The mansion, with its grand corridors and expansive rooms, felt particularly silent this morning. Murad blinked his eyes open, the remnants of a restless night clinging to his consciousness. He lay still for a moment, listening to the distant hum of the city waking up, before pulling himself out of bed.

He dressed in his workout clothes—a simple black T-shirt and grey shorts—and made his way to his private gym. The air was crisp and cool, a sharp contrast to the warmth of his bed. The gym, a space he had meticulously designed for his needs, was equipped with the latest fitness equipment and mirrored walls that reflected his every move. It was a sanctuary of sorts, a place where he could lose himself in physical exertion and, for a while, escape the chaos of his thoughts.

Murad started with his usual warm-up, a series of stretches to limber up his muscles. As he moved through the routine, his mind drifted to the letter from Taliya. He couldn't shake the anticipation—or the anxiety—of what the letter might contain. Their last conversation had been explosive, filled with accusations and unanswered questions. Her words echoed in his mind, a vague promise that had left him in limbo.

He transitioned into his main workout, lifting weights with a precision born from years of discipline. The rhythmic clanking of metal against metal provided a steady backdrop to his thoughts. Each rep, each push, was an outlet for the frustration and uncertainty that had built up inside him. Murad focused on the burn in his muscles, the sweat forming on his brow, trying to drown out the memories of their fight.

It had been a long time since he and Taliya had faced such turmoil. They had known each other since middle school, their bond deepening through years of shared experiences. The thought of her trying to harm him was absurd, yet the circumstances had pointed toward something dark and incomprehensible. He couldn't reconcile the loving, loyal Taliya he knew with the actions she was accused of. The letter was supposed to clarify everything, but as each day passed without its arrival, his doubts grew.

Finishing his weightlifting routine, Murad moved to the treadmill. He set it to a brisk pace, the steady thud of his feet matching the beat of his heart. The rhythmic pounding was almost meditative, allowing him to lose himself in the motion. Yet, even as he ran, his eyes kept drifting toward the window, where he could see the sprawling garden outside. The garden, meticulously maintained, was a burst of greenery amidst the concrete jungle of the city. It was also where the mail was delivered—a small, unassuming mailbox nestled among the bushes.

The anticipation gnawed at him. What was taking so long? What was Taliya writing about? Did she finally have an explanation that made sense of everything? Murad felt a surge of impatience mixed with dread. He needed to know, needed to understand what had gone wrong between them. The treadmill beeped, signaling the end of his session, and he stepped off, wiping the sweat from his brow.

He grabbed a towel, draped it around his neck, and headed for the garden. The morning air was crisp, and the scent of dew-covered grass filled his lungs as he jogged down the stone path. His eyes scanned the horizon, searching for any sign of the postman. The garden was quiet, save for the distant chirping of birds and the soft rustling of leaves in the breeze.

Reaching the mailbox, Murad's heart sank slightly when he found it empty. He checked his watch; it was still early. The postman typically arrived around this time, and Murad hoped today would be no different. He paced the garden, trying to distract himself with thoughts of work, upcoming meetings, anything to keep his mind off the letter. But it was no use. His thoughts always circled back to Taliya and the words she had yet to share.

As the minutes ticked by, Murad's patience waned. He ran a hand through his dark hair, slick with sweat, and sighed heavily. The uncertainty was like a weight on his chest, making it hard to breathe. Just as he was about to give up and head back inside, he spotted the familiar figure of the postman approaching from down the street. Murad's heart leaped in his chest.

He stood by the mailbox, watching as the postman made his way up the path. The man, dressed in a khaki uniform, smiled politely and greeted him with a nod. Murad returned the gesture, his eyes fixed on the bundle of letters in the postman's hand. The postman opened the mailbox and slipped the letters inside, then gave Murad a friendly wave before continuing on his route.

As soon as the postman was out of sight, Murad hurried to the mailbox. His hands trembled slightly as he opened it and pulled out the stack of letters.

Taking in a deep breath, he carried the stack of letters inside with him as he scratched his neck feeling nervous as if he was back in his middle school. The truth was, he was not the one who still stuck in the middle school. It was Taliya who was stuck in the middle school. She tried to move on. But to her avail, past bound her harder than future could ever try.

He quickly sifted through them—bills, advertisements, a magazine subscription.