She dropped to her knees beside him. Shaking, tears spilled down before she could stop them. They rolled across her cheeks, carrying tiny streaks of powder with them.
Nadiraa pressed her hands against his wound, crying loudly.
“Omar, wake up. Please don’t leave me. Not tonight.”
The room was quiet except for Nadiraa’s cries.
Her hands shook as she pressed them against Omar’s head. Her tears fell faster, sliding down her cheeks, leaving dark, uneven lines where her powder began to wash away.
She did not notice.
For the first time in many years, she forgot about her face. All she saw was Omar lying still on the floor.
“Please, God, not tonight,” she whispered. “Don’t take him from me. I can’t be alone again. I can’t.”
Then Omar groaned.
His fingers moved.
Slowly, his eyes opened.
Nadiraa gasped with relief and leaned closer.
But Omar’s face suddenly changed.
His weak eyes widened.
His mouth trembled.
“Nadiraa?” he whispered, his voice broken. “What… what happened to you?”
Nadiraa froze.
Her heart stopped.
She touched her cheek and felt it.
Not smooth. Not soft. But dry skin. Lines. Wrinkles.
The powder was breaking.
Her mask was gone.
Omar stared, shocked, his chest rising and falling as he tried to make sense of the face before him.
“You… you are not…” he stammered. “How… how old are you?”
Nadiraa covered her face with both hands and began to sob.
Omar pushed himself up slowly. He could barely stand, but his eyes remained fixed on her face.
The young bride he had carried moments ago was gone.
Before him was an old woman—skin wrinkled, lips trembling, hair thin and gray where the powder had cracked away.
Omar’s breathing became shallow and fast. He pressed his back against the wall as if trying to escape. His eyes darted to the door.
“No… no, no. This is not you,” he whispered. “This can’t be you.”
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