MEMORY

He raised a gun. She raised her history

She had felt him following her during her last few house calls.
She didn’t know why—but he was there.
So when he finally shouted for her to stop, she wasn’t surprised.

She stopped. Turned.

And was surprised by how much he had grown.

She hadn’t seen him in years.
Fifteen, maybe sixteen now. Almost a man.

Then she noticed the gun.

He was yelling, but she had been too wrapped in memory to catch the words. The gun moved in nervous arcs.

“Nimer,” she said gently. “It’s so nice to see you.”

“How do you know my name?”

“I know your family. I was there when they planted the tree the day you were born. The one you cut down when you were eight? I convinced your father to send you to school instead of the fields.”

She stopped there. Better to let him speak.

“You’re a foreigner,” he said. “I’m going to kill you.”

She didn’t flinch.

“If that’s what you must do, then so be it.”

That wasn’t what he expected. Anger tightened into confusion.

“You should be afraid of me.”

She said nothing.

She had been in scenes like this before. Too many.
Perhaps she’d already said too much.
Perhaps tonight was the night.

She closed her eyes, listening to the night sounds. Breathing in the three seasons she had learned to live by: hot, cold, bearable.

She was ready.

Then—shot.

She opened her eyes. Still standing. Still breathing.

Nimer stood before her, gun raised. But unmoving.

His left hand gripped his chest. His face slackened.

He swayed. The gun slipped.

She ran, reaching him just as his knees buckled.

For a moment, it felt like catching a child again—weightless, then suddenly heavy.

His eyes flickered. She couldn’t tell if he was looking at her, through her, or past her.

Then his body stilled.

She held him, and the night went on.