“I was foolish. I took it. And from that day, all the men I dated grew old. They died. I dated them to know what it felt like to be loved… and to watch them die before me. And I let it happen.”
Her voice dropped lower.
“But when you came, I loved only you.”
She looked at him with tears streaming down her face.
“The rule of the powder is this: I must never cry for anyone, no matter what. All the men I was with died, but I stayed the same.”
She touched her cracked cheek.
“Until now.”
She leaned closer, her voice breaking into a whisper.
“Do you understand now, Omar? I could not stop. I could not be alone. The powder became my life. Without it, I am nothing. Without it… this is who I am.”
Omar stared at her in disbelief.
“You are not twenty-five?”
She nodded slowly, tears spilling again.
“I am one hundred years old.”
Silence filled the room.
The candles flickered.
Omar pressed his back harder against the wall. His face was pale, his breathing uneven.
Nadiraa crawled closer, trying to hold his hand, her fingers trembling against his skin.
“Please, Omar, don’t leave me. You are all I have now. I don’t want to be alone again.”
Omar pulled his hand away from Nadiraa’s grip. His eyes were wide, his face drained of color.
“No, Nadiraa,” he whispered, voice breaking. “This… this is not the woman I married. You lied to me. You hid yourself from me.”
Nadiraa reached for him again, crawling weakly across the room.
“Please, Omar, I did it because I was afraid. Afraid of being left. Afraid of being unloved. Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me.”
But Omar staggered back, pressing himself against the door. His eyes were full of sorrow and fear.
“I don’t even know who you are.”
The words struck Nadiraa like a knife.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly as her sobs grew louder.
And then something began to change.
Her skin, already wrinkled, started to fold deeper.
Her hair thinned until white strands fell to the floor.
Her back bent further.
Her hands trembled as if carrying an unbearable weight.
The powder, broken by her tears, was leaving her for good.
Her youth, stolen and preserved for so many years, was gone.
Omar watched in horror as his bride aged before his eyes.
She aged more and more.
One hundred.
Two hundred.
Three hundred.
Each second stole more of her strength. More of her life.
“No,” Nadiraa whispered, her voice dry and weak. “Not yet. Please, not yet.”
She stretched her hand toward Omar, but he stepped back again, his heart torn between fear and pity.
The room grew cold.
Finally, Nadiraa collapsed to the floor.
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