Chapter 127 : Reading a diary.

The evening descended upon the Rahman Mansion. The fading light painted the sky in hues of deep indigo and velvety Black, as stars began to twinkle in the cast expanse above. The air grew cooler, carrying a hint of dampness, as a gentle breeze murmured through the surrounding trees, rustling leaves in a soft symphony.

Ava, nestled in her cozy bedroom, diligently completed her university assignments and homework. She filled pages with neat notes, pausing occasionally to reread and absorb the information. 

A gentle knock on the door interrupted her concentration. Yasmeen appeared with a tray laden with tempting evening snacks, "Aliya ma'am told me to bring you some treats."

Ava looked up from her studies, a grateful smile lighting up her face. "Thank you, Yasmeen," she replied, gesturing for the tray to be placed beside her on the bed.

"Ma'am seems very focused on her studies, Do you always come first in your class?" Yasmeen asked gently. 

Ava chuckled, pushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "I enjoy studying, that's for sure. While I haven't claimed the top spot just yet, I usually manage to rank within the top ten. Last semester, I managed to snag fourth place!"

Yasmeen's eyes widened in surprise. "That's incredible, ma'am! You must be very intelligent."

Ava blushed slightly. "I try my best," she mumbled, her eyes flitting to a specific spot in the room – the single bed that stood pushed against the wall. 

A thoughtful silence lingered for a moment before Ava spoke again. "Yasmeen, could you please ask someone to move this single bed and put a sofa in its place?"

Yasmeen's brow furrowed in confusion. "But ma'am, wouldn't you need the bed?"

Ava's smile widened, "No, Yasmeen. There's no need for two beds anymore."

Yasmeen acknowledged the request with a nod and silently left the room. Ava's gaze again followed the single bed and a soft smile played on her lips as she contemplated the changes that had slowly but steadily transformed her and Ibrahim's relationship.

Just then, two male servants knocked on the door. The door was already wide open, "Ma'am, we're here to move the bed as per your instructions." 

"Yes, please, come in." Ava called out, rising from the bed and heading towards the study room with her coffee mug, leaving the servants to their task.

She pushed open the heavy study room door, the scent of old books and polished mahogany filling her senses. Ibrahim's study room held an aura of quiet indulgence. And Ava intended to lose herself in a new novel, drawn to the towering bookcases that lined the walls.

Her gaze, however, snagged on a slender black book tucked away in a corner, almost hidden amongst the more vibrant books. Unlike the others, it bore no title, its worn black leather cover offering nothing but a silent mystery.

Pulling it out, she discovered it wasn't a book but a diary, its black surface smooth to the touch. The leather was cracked and brittle. A faint musty scent was coming from its pages. It felt like a relic, a tangible piece of someone's past, begging to be explored. Carefully she carried it to the mahogany table, its polished surface reflecting the lamplight.

She sat on a chair and slowly opened the diary. Blankness greeted her on the first page, but turning it, her heart jumped. There, in Ibrahim's familiar, elegant handwriting, were words. This was his private world, his thoughts and reflections captured in ink.

December 1st, 2006 :

"December 1st, 2006" she read again. Ibrahim would have been just eighteen then. 

She read on.....

December 1st, 2006 :

London, 

London air bites like ice today. It cuts through my coat, straight to the bone, mimicking the ache in my chest. Dad, you wouldn't have liked this weather. You always complained it stole everyone's smiles, turned their faces grey. But then, nothing's smiling today, is it Dad? Not the sky, not the mourners, not even the stupid stone they put you under.

They said it was a peaceful passing. A heart attack in his sleep, they called it. Like he just decided to take a nap and forgot to wake up. But I saw your face, Dad. Even under that cold winter sun, your eyes were open. Wide open, like you were surprised, like you couldn't believe it yourself.

We buried you today, with the same grey sky weeping its winter tears. Buried under six feet of London clay. The cold, damp earth seems to mock your warmth, his vibrancy. Mom held my hand, her fingers like brittle twigs. I wanted to tell her it wasn't fair, that you were too young, too full of life. But the words wouldn't come. They got stuck in my throat, choked by the same icy air that stole your breath.

Mom... I don't know how to handle Mom. Her eyes are hollow, reflecting the same desolation I feel. She cries silently, the tears rolling down her cheeks like silent accusations. I'm supposed to be the strong one, the elder brother, but right now, I can barely hold myself together.

Samir keeps asking where Dad is. My clumsy explanations leave him confused and scared. His innocent questions tear at me, a constant reminder of the responsibility I now shoulder. He's just thirteen, too young to understand the finality of death, the gaping hole it leaves in our lives. He clings to me like a life raft, and for a moment, I forget my own grief, trying to be the rock he needs. But then the weight comes crashing back, and I feel like I'm drowning too.

Dad... London Winter bites like your stern lectures used to, making my fingers numb just like my heart. Remember how you'd say winter taught you resilience, Dad? I never thought I'd need it this much. This responsibility, this sudden heaviness on my shoulders... it feels too much.

Remember how you used to tell me, son, that strength isn't just about muscles, but about the spirit that endures? Today, my spirit feels fractured, Dad. Every decision, every conversation, the weight of responsibility hangs heavy. I miss your guidance, your wisdom, the way you could see through any problem with your calm, steady gaze.

They keep saying "be strong for your mother," "be strong for Samir," but what about me, Dad? Who's there for me? You would have known what to say, would have punched me playfully on the arm and told me to man up. But you're not here, and I don't know how to man up without you.

Do you remember that time I fell off my bike and scraped my knee? You cleaned it with gentle hands, telling me stories to distract me from the pain. I wish you were here now, Dad, to tell me stories that would numb this ache in my chest. I would sit beside you by the fireplace, listening to your voice calm the storm inside me.

How do I move on, Dad? How do I learn to live without you, without your guidance, your laughter, your love? Now, the darkness feels all-encompassing, Dad. I'm drowning in it, lost without your anchor. Are you watching over me? Can you hear my heart breaking, feel the emptiness where you used to be?

The tears come again, blurring the ink on the paper. You wouldn't want me to be weak, Dad, I know that. But please, forgive me for letting go just this once. I miss you more than words can say. And even though you're gone, a part of you will always live on in me. Dad, don't ever leave me completely. I need you, even if it's just in the echoes of your memory.

 Ava's hand trembled as she turned the page. She had known Ibrahim as the strong, composed businessman, the pillar of his family. But here, in these pages, she saw a different side of him – vulnerable, lost. Her gaze fell on the new date: January 20th, 2007. A month and a half had passed since his father's burial.

January 20th, 2007

Dad,

We're back in KL. The city hasn't changed, yet everything feels different. You always said KL held your spirit, but without you, it just feels… empty. 

Life, Dad, it's kicking my ass right now. You left me holding the reins, and let me tell you, they're heavy. The business, it's more complicated than I ever imagined. Deals gone sour, threats veiled in smiles – it's a constant chess game, and I feel like a novice playing against grandmasters.

This life, Dad, it's not for the faint of heart. The deals, the double-crosses, the constant fear of betrayal – it wears you down, grinds you to dust if you're not careful. And sometimes, I feel like I'm crumbling.

Remember Uncle Haider? He's been a rock, a loyal friend to you, but even he can't fill the void you left. He sees the burden I carry, the worry etched on my face, but he can't offer the comfort of shared memories, the solace of a father's love.

Sometimes, I think about walking away. Leaving it all behind, escaping this life that feels like a gilded cage. But then I remember your words, about honor, about duty, about protecting what you built. So I soldier on, day after day, a mask of strength hiding the hollowness within.

Is this what you wanted for me, Dad? This constant struggle, this burden of carrying a legacy I barely understand? I know you believed in me, saw a strength I didn't see myself. But right now, all I see is darkness, an endless road with no clear destination.

Just last week, things almost fell apart. That shipment… the one you had meticulously planned, the one you swore had a foolproof escape route – the police snagged it. The first time, Dad. The first time we've ever been caught. Fear clawed at my throat, the icy grip of failure threatening to consume me. I saw the disappointment in the eyes of the men, heard the whispers of doubt. "Is he strong enough?" 

But I managed to clean it up, twisted some arms, offered some… "incentives." But the stench of worry clings to me like a bad dream. Every phone call, every knock on the door, sends shivers down my spine. Is it the cops?

You found me, Dad, even when I thought I was hopelessly lost. Now, I feel the same way, adrift in a sea of uncertainty.

Is this weakness, Dad? Is this what you feared for me? Was this the legacy you envisioned? I just want to make you proud, but the path you laid out feels more like a prison than a promise. I clench my fists, trying to feel the strength you always saw in me, the ruthlessness you instilled.

They say time heals all wounds. Maybe it does, but right now, the wound feels like an open gash, bleeding doubt and fear. I'm trying, Dad, I truly am. Your son is fighting and will fight till his last breath....

Then Ava heard, "Why are you reading this, baby girl?"