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❝Angels don't lie, but you do. If I'm a devil, what are you?❞
When Burq loses his memory in an accident and doesn't remember his own wife anymore, Leyla finds it a chance to escape her beastly husband and pretends to be his friend...
Take those brittled ribs off. Let me touch the most flawed, human part of you.
— Mustafa Tattan
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Red is a powerful color— of passion and love, and of violence and blood. It's intense, invoking danger, representing anger, showing strength. But how much a color can represent? More than love, it defines her agony.
Leyla sits on her knees with his head resting on her lap, counting each of his raspy breaths and praying for them not to be his last. She doesn't want a last breath; she wants his life to last. But the paralyzing pain of the harsh reality seizes her sanity, making it nonfunctional, gluing her to his body on the cold floor.
"Lawangeen."
She places a trembling hand upon his own that's clutching the wound on his chest, the blood soaking through his white shirt and staining it red before disappearing under the black shawl covering his shoulders and arms, coloring her skin red too. She tries hard not to cry for her tears might blur her vision and she won't be able to see his face clearly. But she fails and starts crying, unable to shush her heart as the fear of the worst awaiting fate bothers her.
"Lawangeen?"
She leans over him, pushing away his bangs from his forehead that are sticking to it due to his sweating. She cups his cheek and her tears fall over his face.
"No, Brekhna." He tries to smile at her, speaking with effort between labored breaths. "You're my strong sister, jaan."
"Not strong enough to bear your loss," she refuses. "Don't give up on us. Hold on. Zari has gone to call an ambulance," she assures him.
He shakes his head and coughs. "My time has come—"
"No—"
"Listen to me, please." He lifts his hand and Leyla quickly takes it in hers.
"Tell Zarbakhta I'm sorry for breaking her heart. I pray she finds someone better than me," he pauses to gulp in air before adding, "someone who treasures her."
Leyla exhales shakily but doesn't interrupt him.
"Spogmay," he struggles to speak in broken words, coughing, "I've taken care of her like a daughter than a little sister." He pauses again. "She was very young when our parents left us. Be her parents for her, Brekhna." He swallows thickly and draws in more air.
Leyla squeezes his hand in response and he squeezes back weakly.
"Mustafa has my heart," he says. "Take care of my son like your own."
"I will," she promises. "Always."
He smiles at her faintly before groaning in suffering. Leyla winces at his pain. She sees the shine in his dark orbs dulling into something lifeless and her body starts shivering on its own.
