Under the Olive Tree

23. Talata Wa'Ishrun

//TW: Blood//

The ground where she'd hoped to see Muhsin's footsteps from the night before was drenched in water, the soil beginning to harden beneath her feet. The thought that there might have been something to rinse away made her heart fall. Even as her eyes roamed over the street now freshly illuminated under the afternoon sun, Amani found not a single droplet of blood or piece of clothing.

Not one sign.

She'd never received a call. She was fully confident in the fact because she'd spent the night beside the landline in the living room, watching the small bulb in hopes it would begin flashing red. But the phone didn't ring a single time since she'd parted ways from Muhsin yesterday. If her aunt hadn't stopped her, Amani would have taken herself to his home in search of his disappeared self.

Every step she took down the long street in the direction of his home, the gunshot fired time after another in her mind. All night she'd questioned the body the bullet would have pierced through.

Perhaps the soldier had turned the rifle away and shot it, only to scare Muhsin. Or maybe someone else had stepped into the encounter and become the victim of the situation. But no deaths had been called out in the town's speakers. If someone had died, they would have announced it already, right?

Unless they had just found the body a few hours ago. Then they would have to choose which prayer would be claimed for the lost soul. Not to mention notify the family and wash and prepare the victim.

What if it was Muhsin?

What if Muhsin had been killed because she'd walked away when she should have just stayed with him? Amani stifled the urge to curse herself for making such a stupid decision. Yesterday was a better time than ever to ignore Muhsin's orders—she'd done it before so there had been no reason to start.

The bakery remained unopened when she came to an anxious stop in front of its glass. Today was Monday—Muhsin spent Mondays managing the bakery—and it wasn't early in the day. He usually had it opened by now.

Where was he?

Amani turned toward the taller building a few houses down. She'd never visited his house without an escort. If anyone in the street saw, they might think it scandalous. Amani hardly cared but she knew Muhsin would. Should she go up? Or should she go home, ask her aunt for the number, and call instead?

Muhsin would vote for the second choice.

But Muhsin wasn't here.

And Amani was impatient.

She huffed a breath of determination and abandoned the front of the unopened bakery with only one target in mind. It didn't matter if anybody else saw her visit Muhsin's house without an escort. This was hardly a matter in which to worry about what others would think.

"Amani," he called from behind her, hardly having to raise his voice so her name would carry. She heard him easily regardless of how far away they were or how loudly the streets bustled around them.

Amani spun around at Muhsin's voice, finding him stepping out of the bakery door with a stained apron around his waist. He looked at her questioningly as if he was unsure whether he'd really seen her.

At the sight of him, unscathed, Amani's lungs finally released the breath she felt like she'd been suffocating on all night. "Muhsin," she sighed, quickly walking back toward him.

Muhsin wiped his hands on the towel thrown over his shoulder as she approached, squinting in the overhead sunlight to see the girl. "Is everything OK?" He asked.

"You didn't call," she dropped her voice but retained the same frustration she'd felt just moments before.

His expression shifted at her statement and Muhsin realized that he seemed to have forgotten what he'd told her he would do. "Ah," he murmured, tossing the towel back over his shoulder. "Right. I must have forgotten when I made it home. I'm sorry."