Chapter 11
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Author's Voice
Dawn's first light unfurled across the Pratama gardens, painting dew-dropped leaves in pale gold. The world here moved with hushed reverence: a breeze whispered through jasmine vines, and somewhere, a fountain murmured its steady lullaby.
Today, the chaos of the mansion felt far away. Here, in this secret haven of marble pathways and hidden alcoves, two souls—borne of tragedy and vengeance—were about to discover a fragile peace neither had expected.
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Alya's POV
I stepped out onto the lawn, my bare feet pressing into the cool grass. The fabric of my kameez swished softly at my ankles; my heart thrummed with a curious ease. No one had invited me here. I'd simply followed a path of my own choosing.
The rose-arched trellis led to a circular seating area of white stone benches. I paused beneath its shadow, breathing in the heady scent of morning blooms. Somewhere between hesitation and hope, I unfolded a small prayer mat—my own corner of the world.
I lowered myself to my knees, closed my eyes, and whispered the familiar tahajjud invocation:
> "Allahumma inni as'aluka hubbaka…"
Each sujood was a plea for healing, each breath a promise of trust.
As I rose from my final prostration, the world felt lighter—if only for a moment.
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Reyhan's POV
I found her there—already kneeling—when I slipped from my room. The mansion's corridors felt emptier than usual, as though every wall had exhaled at my departure.
In the garden's cool hush, I paused behind the trellis, watching her silhouette framed by roses and dawn. She moved with solemn grace; the slight rise and fall of her shoulders spoke of a soul seeking refuge.
For a heartbeat, I considered retreating. This was her sanctuary. Yet something drew me forward—an almost desperate need to share that peace.
I cleared my throat, careful not to startle her.
> "Alya."
Her hands stilled. She turned, eyes luminous with surprise. I offered a small nod.
She gathered her mat and rose, brushing grass from her knees. I held out my own prayer mat.
> "May I?" I asked quietly.
She inclined her head. In the silver light, she looked both fragile and extraordinary.
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Shared Tahajjud
Side by side, we knelt once more. The garden's sky stretched overhead, a canvas of fading stars.
We bowed together—two silhouettes in quiet harmony—and the only sound was our whispered du'a, interwoven in the still air.
I felt her presence beside me more deeply than any vow I had ever made. Each prostration was a confession: I needed this—her breadth of silence, the calm of her faith.
When we rose, our eyes met. No words passed between us, yet in that glance lay a thousand unspoken truths: gratitude, longing, a shared wonder at this fragile bond.
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A Quiet Conversation
After prayer, I remained seated as she folded her mat. The jasmine breeze carried her soft breathing. Tentatively, I asked:
> "What did you pray for just now?"
She hesitated, then tapped her chest once—her heart. I nodded, understanding.
> "And for me?" I ventured, voice low.
Her head tilted, a gentle question. I pointed to her mouth, then to mine. She drew her hand across her throat, meaning she could teach me.
I exhaled, realization blooming. I produced a small notebook and pen—my attempt at bridging her silence. I wrote:
> "Would you like to teach me some signs?"
She smiled—a real smile, one that reached her eyes—and signed in careful, deliberate movements:
> "Yes. Together."
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A Lesson in Silence
Over the next hour, beneath petals drifting from the trellis above, we formed our first lesson. She guided my fingers into basic signs: "thank you," "peace," "friend." My hands fumbled, but she only laughed—soft, encouraging, a sound I wanted to remember.
When I learned "grateful," I swept my hand to my heart. She tapped her chest in reply and placed her hand over mine. The contact was electric in its simplicity.
Beyond the garden's walls, I could almost feel Victor Arman's schemes pressing in—but here, nothing existed but her warm guidance.
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Unspoken Tensions
As the sky brightened, our lesson paused. We sipped tea I'd poured from a thermos I'd carried out. She offered me a cup with a shy nod. I bowed in thanks, tasting the cardamom blend, feeling a rare quiet between my duties and my heart's new desire.
Yet even as peace bloomed, I could sense the undercurrents: the empire I was bound to protect, the rival moving in shadows, the promise of violence I could not escape.
I watched her stir sugar into my tea, brows knotted in concentration, and I felt an ache—but it was not hunger or anger. It was the longing to shield her from every storm.
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Author's Voice
In the hush of that dawn, two opposing worlds met: a mafia heir haunted by power's demands, and a mute bride who spoke only through faith and gesture. Their unspoken bond thrived in the garden's sanctuary, but the world beyond—where Victor Arman sharpened his claws—loomed ever nearer.
For now, silence was their language, and trust their fragile shield. What tomorrow would bring, neither could predict. Yet as the sun's first rays gilded the rose-arched trellis, hope—quiet, persistent—blossomed in the space between sujoods and signs.
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