اثبت ولا تستسلم للعاصفة
stand firm; don't yield to the storm

            MARYAM'S FAMILY never knew how to love in the way most people do.

Affection wasn't something that came easily to them, not because they didn't feel it, but because it was never something they could afford to express.

They grew up in poverty, in neighborhoods full of people who, like them, were lost and struggling.

And poverty is violent.

It doesn't give you the chance to build a sense of who you are, to explore your own identity, or even dream of the future. You can't even think about love or personal goals when you're just trying to make sure the bills get paid.

It's a constant state of survival, where every day feels like a fight. It can wear you down, make you lose pieces of yourself along the way.

But most of all, it can kill, in ways you can't always see.

Before they had left the war-scarred tropics of their homeland for the promise of a new life in the land of freedom, their love had always been quiet, buried beneath years of survival and sorrow. It was the kind of love you carry not in words, but in the spaces between your breaths.

Affection was part of their culture, yes.

In the Mediterranean, warmth wasn't optional; it was instinctive. Kisses on the cheeks were as natural as saying hello. They laughed loudly at weddings, hugged tightly at reunions, and made strangers feel like family at dinner tables piled high with food.

But there was another layer beneath the surface—a reserve that was harder to define, like a door left only partially open.

They didn't express love in words often, not because they didn't feel it, but because they didn't need to.

Words, after all, were fleeting.

Love for them was something stronger, something tangible, something rooted in actions.

A grandmother slipping an extra portion of food onto your plate without asking if you were hungry.

A father repairing your shoes before you even noticed the soles were worn.

A sister sitting beside you in silence when the weight of the world felt too heavy to carry alone.

It was a rough kind of love — not coarse or cold, but unpolished, stripped of unnecessary flourishes. It wasn't about saying I love you or writing letters that spilled secrets onto paper.

Their love was in the doing, the giving, the knowing.

It wasn't loud, but it was there, steady and sure, woven into every act of care.

And maybe that was enough. Maybe that was more than enough.

She didn't have many memories of her parents before they were gone, just fragments — sharp, aching flashes of moments that felt like they belonged to someone else. She lost them young, extremely young. But even in the dim recesses of her mind, she could still feel the heaviness of their presence. They were always there, always near, but never really with her.

All she remembered was that their kind of love was not loud, nor was it tender in the way she'd come to learn it could be. It was something else — something distant and quiet, like the way the stars are distant, their light soft, but always there if you look close enough.

Surviving had been more important than holding each other.

There had been no room for softness in their world — only the grit, the silence, the way their bodies moved through life without ever fully connecting. Maryam learned early that love wasn't something you asked for.

It was something you learned to carry inside yourself, a quiet ache that you never spoke of, never let anyone see, but somehow kept alive in the dark corners of your soul.

She learned silence from her father, the kind of silence that spoke louder than any words ever could.

It was the only way Idris Ben Halimi knew how to grieve — burying everything beneath an unbreakable mask of stoic restraint.

No tears, no rage, just a quiet, suffocating stillness.

She could never forget the way he moved through the world, the way his heart must have broken in pieces, but he would never let anyone see it.

Maryam often wondered if that was how most men were, but especially brown fathers. There was a peculiar kind of pain that ran through them, a pain that didn't have the luxury of showing itself.

In a world where everything was stripped away, and you were left with nothing but dreams clinging desperately to the tips of your fingers, you learned to swallow your emotions, to bury them deep inside. You learned what a man was supposed to be — stoic, silent, and strong —never bending, never breaking.

But her father was also gentle in ways that made her heart ache with a bittersweet kind of love.

She remembered climbing onto his back when he was praying on his prayer mat, her tiny arms clinging to his shoulders as he moved through the motions. He never scolded her for interrupting; instead, he'd finish his prayer and turn to her with a smile, pretending to collapse under her weight with exaggerated groans, making her laugh until her sides hurt.

He had a patience about him, a tenderness that revealed itself in the smallest of moments. Like when he braided her hair before school, his rough hands moving carefully through her curls as though he feared breaking them. He didn't rush or tug, pausing every so often to ask if he was pulling too hard.

And he always managed to finish with a little joke or compliment that made her feel like the most beautiful girl in the world.

Idris was the kind of father who would gather all his daughters after a long week and take them to the beach, their laughter rising above the sound of crashing waves.

He'd wade into the water with them, trousers rolled up, holding their hands as they shrieked at the cold. And later, he'd lay out a towel and sit in the sand, quietly watching them build castles and collect seashells, his eyes soft with pride.

He'd bring home sweets wrapped in crinkling paper after a late shift, making each one of them feel like it was a treasure meant just for them. He told stories — his stories, their stories, the ones passed down from his own father, always with the same reverence, as though those tales were sacred threads binding them to something larger than themselves.

There were times, too, when his love was practical but no less profound.

Fixing broken toys, replacing burned-out light bulbs, staying up late to help with math homework he barely understood himself, but trying anyway because he didn't want them to feel alone. He'd drive them to every wedding, every gathering, no matter how tired he was, because family mattered, and showing up was his way of saying, I love you.

He wasn't perfect ( no one was ) but in his quiet, steady way, he taught her what love looked like.

Not in grand speeches or poetic declarations, but in the care he poured into their lives, the warmth he wrapped around them like a second skin.

And then there was her mother, Lejla Petrovich.

Daughter of a family that wasn't supposed to exist, a name that should've been buried in the ashes of history. Loved by some, reviled by others. Her lineage was whispered like an old legend : a fairytale drenched in tragedy, its ending written in blood and ruin.

From her mother, she inherited more than cheekbones or a stubborn streak. No, she inherited a fire — a rage that didn't simply burn but seared, alive in her veins. It wasn't just her mother's anger, though. It was something more primal, more ancient, forged in the marrow of generations.

It came from the women who had walked before her — her grandmother, her great-grandmother, and the unbroken chain of survivors who had bled, endured, and fought. Those women had etched their stories into her bones, stitching their pain into the seams of her existence.

She once read that a woman's trauma could leave a chemical mark on her children and grandchildren.
That meant a grandmother's pain could affect three generations; because a mother carries her daughter's eggs, and in turn, her daughter carries the eggs of her own future children.

Whatever happened to her, whatever broke her, left a mark on her body, one that got passed down.

Was that science? Or was it something deeper, a kind of spiritual warfare?

Maryam didn't know.

But it felt like a silent imprint, something carried in their very DNA. Wounds, invisible yet potent, echoing through the generations, reshaping the lives of those who never saw the battles fought.

And so, she carried them with her — her mother's fury, her grandmother's grief, her great-grandmother's strength.

An inheritance, not of wealth or privilege, but of ghosts.

Of loss, of resilience, of the kind of love that survives even when the world tries to stamp it out.

They lived in her, not just as memories, but as a part of her being. Her anger, her grief, her fight — they weren't just hers.

They were theirs too, passed down like a torch that she, too, would carry.

But her mother... God, her mother was tragic.

Tragic like a storm tearing through the world. Untamed, ferocious, and breathtaking in its destruction. She was a force of nature, beautiful and terrifying all at once, the kind of presence that left you awestruck and trembling.

There was an otherworldly quality to her, as if she didn't just live within the tragedy but embodied it.

Her mother wasn't just cursed. She was the curse.

A living, breathing paradox of despair and defiance, pulsing with a relentless energy that devoured everything in its path. She was a melody fractured beyond repair, hauntingly unforgettable, lingering long after the music had stopped.

Her mother's presence was like shadow and storm combined, moving through life as if wrapped in inevitability. She didn't just carry tragedy : it clung to her, soaked into her very being, impossible to outrun or escape.

And Maryam couldn't shake the feeling that the curse had reached for her too, threading through her veins like a silent, inherited whisper.

The Romanov curse, they called it. Or so Uncle Andrei claimed, weaving stories steeped in folklore and whispers. It was more than rumor, he'd insist — it was a truth carved into their family's history.

Women of their bloodline, he said, were not meant for joy.

The tale had stretched itself into cinema, books, and the popular imagination, but Uncle Andrei swore by it. 

Too many curses, he'd whisper, had been hurled at their family by the broken and the suffering.

The most infamous ? Grigori Rasputin's curse.

The mad monk had vowed he wouldn't die until every member of Tsar Nicholas II's immediate family had perished.

Maryam didn't know if it was true.

Because here she was, unfortunately, still alive.

She and her sisters, direct descendants of Nicholas II, breathing against all odds. Maybe Rasputin had never existed, or maybe his curse had failed.

But still, it lingered.

A specter haunting her family's every moment of peace.

Her great-grandmother.

Her grandmother.

Her mother.

Would she or one of her sisters be next? That, she didn't know yet.

But one thing she did know : each of them had been claimed by cruel, untimely deaths. Every time their family seemed to claw back some semblance of happiness, life ( or the curse ) would come with a new punishment.

It was cruel, relentless, and suffocating. A cosmic reckoning they couldn't escape. And Maryam felt it.

She had survived more than her share of brushes with death — wars, relentless training in Russia, missions for Fish Mooney that pushed her past her breaking point. She had come through it all, alive but scarred, carrying the ghosts of demons that refused to leave.

Even now, as the bloodline's shadows stretched into her life, it was as if her survival was no triumph but only a reminder that curses don't kill all at once.

They unravel you slowly.

And Maryam, no matter how strong she pretended to be, was still tangled in its grip.

She didn't feel proud to be a Romanov.

For most, the name conjured mystery, glamour, and tragedy — a crown lost in the tides of revolution, the last imperial family immortalized in fairytales and conspiracy theories. To anyone else, being linked to such a legacy might feel like a gift, a chance to imagine themselves as a princess in exile, a figure of intrigue and romance.

But not to Maryam.

Far from it actually.

The more she learned about her maternal ancestors, the more it felt like a cruel joke. Maryam Ben Halimi, daughter of a man who had endured the brutalities of colonization and torture, whose family was scattered across continents in search of safety, was also the daughter of a woman tied to royalty, privilege, and wealth. A woman whose lineage belonged to a history soaked in decadence and blood, crowned in luxury and tragedy alike.

And yet, her mother, and even her grandmother before her, had known none of that grandeur. They lived far from palaces and tsars, far from riches and privilege, bound instead by the weight of a name and the shadow of a curse.

Still, it made Maryam feel strange — ashamed, even. Because her life had been anything but royal. She had been cast aside, marked by her identity, her roots, her very existence.

The Romanovs, for all their fairytale charm, weren't saints or Disney royalty, no matter how modern Russia tried to canonize them. Their history was full of cruelty, missteps, and the kind of arrogance that seemed to invite retribution. They had sown their curses, one after another, and those seeds had taken root.

Her mother might have been proof of that.

Lejla Petrovich was fiery, outspoken, and unyielding. Born into poverty, raised far from imperial halls, she had none of the luxury her bloodline was known for. Instead, she inherited their storms — their passion, their anger, their tragedy.

And yet, like all Slavic mothers, Lejla poured every ounce of her fire and energy into her family. She made sure her daughters were well-fed and bundled against the cold, their plates always full and their hearts warmed by her presence. She would hum soft tunes to soothe them, only to turn around and scold them for being too noisy — while her own voice carried loud and clear.

Despite the weight she bore, she gave them everything she could, wrapping her fierce love in the small, unspoken gestures that lingered long after the moments had passed.

Maryam suspected her mother's desire for a large family came from her own loneliness.

As an only child, Lejla had known the ache of silence in a house meant to echo with voices. Like Maryam, she had lost her parents young, and the circumstances of their deaths were as tragic and violent as any other story in their cursed lineage.

The curse wasn't just something that hovered in history books or whispered rumors; it was in their lives, their hearts, their bodies. And while Lejla tried to fight it with all her fire, it had marked her just the same.

The last time Maryam saw her mother, she was being dragged away by the Serbs.

It was a memory that haunted her, one she wished she could erase, and for a while, she clung to the fragile hope that her mother might still be alive. Her family had spared her the details at first, choosing silence over truth, leaving Maryam in the dark and tired of fielding questions at school.

"What happened to your parents?" they'd ask.
"My father was executed," she'd answer, rehearsed and hollow.
"And your mother?"
"I don't know," she would say, though every word scraped like gravel in her throat.

For years, she carried that half-truth, that faint hope.

It wasn't until she was thirteen that the silence was finally broken. Fish Mooney, of all people, told her first, the words landing like a stone in her chest. Later, her family confirmed it, though even then, they offered no details, no closure — just a name, a place: Višegrad. Eastern Bosnia.

It was where her mother had been taken, and it was where she had likely died.

Maryam wished she had never learned the truth.

What she uncovered was too cruel to bear, a nightmare carved into history.

Višegrad.

A town where women were herded into places like the Vilina Vlas Hotel, turned from sanctuaries into sites of unspeakable horror.

The stories were almost too much to believe : women detained, raped, and tortured.

Those who survived the ordeal often faced new terrors — forced pregnancies, released only when their swollen bellies bore the evidence of their captors' cruelty.

But most never made it that far.

They were hanged, burned, thrown into rivers or wells, lives erased as if they had never been.

Her mother had disappeared into that place.  Maryam couldn't imagine what she had endured.

And she didn't want to.

The thoughts were too sinful, too unbearable, like stepping too close to the edge of a bottomless pit.

Her mother's body was never found, just like her father's.

It was as if they had never existed, as if their story, their lives, their existence had been plucked from the world and scattered to the wind. The absence of them gnawed at her, an ache that never really dulled.

Even now, decades later, some families still received the calls. A fragment of bone, unearthed from the earth's grim silence, tied to a name long lost.

The authorities would tell them they had uncovered another mass grave ( one of the many scattered across the land ) and that their loved ones were among the remains.

The families were invited to come, to claim what was left, to gather the fragments and finally lay them to rest in the dignity of a proper burial.

Maryam found herself dreading that call as much as she yearned for it.

It would bring answers, perhaps even a sense of finality, but at what cost?

It would mean reliving it all — the horror, the grief, the helplessness.

A door might close, but it would also lock her inside the pain. She wasn't sure she could survive it.

And so, she waited.

She waited for answers she wasn't sure she wanted, caught between the hope of resolution and the fear of what it would demand of her.

Meanwhile, there was the family she had escaped with— the ones who had taken her in and tried their best to raise her, even in a world that seemed determined to make everything difficult.

They were her father's kin, from the land of deserts, jasmin and pomegranates.

A place where the sun scorched the earth by day and the stars blanketed the night skies.

Their home carried the scent of spice and oud. They had offered her what they could — a roof, a meal, an education.

And despite being a family that was bound together by blood and shared history, they weren't the sort to pour their hearts into every moment.

Yes, they were loud. Their voices were never a whisper, always full, always rich with sound as if they were trying to make up for something lost.

Conversations spilled over one another, each person speaking with passion, hands moving as though they could mold the air itself, their laughter a chorus that echoed through the rooms.

There were kisses too — small, fleeting ones, a touch on the cheek here, a peck on the forehead there — but it was as if even those were sometimes too heavy, like they were just expected, not given freely.

A ritual, not a choice.

They were there and gone, like smoke rising, leaving no trace.

But when it came to real emotions, raw, unfiltered emotions—those were different.

That was where the walls went up.

That was where the silence crept in.

It wasn't that they didn't feel.

They felt everything ( too much, maybe ) but they had learned long ago that to expose that feeling was dangerous, even embarrassing. They had been taught to bury it deep, to swallow the softness, the vulnerability, the pain, until it became just another part of the armor they wore.

In a world where survival had to come first, emotion was a luxury they couldn't afford. They didn't talk about it — no one ever said, Don't show emotion. It was just understood, like a rule written in the very air they breathed, a little pact that held them together in its quiet grip.

In their homelands, emotions were something that got people killed.

Too much softness, too much longing—it made you weak.

So they had learned, from the first breath of their lives, to keep it all locked inside, to twist it into something else—something tougher, something that wouldn't bend when the world came crashing in.

And now, here, in this foreign land where freedom was supposed to be theirs, they still clung to that silence like a lifeline.

To speak of sorrow or joy, to ask for comfort or tenderness—those things were left unspoken, as if the act of asking would somehow unravel everything they had fought to build.

It wasn't that they didn't love each other.

They did.

In their own way.

It was just that their love lived in the small things.

In the quiet acts of care that went unnoticed—until you realized they were all that had kept you alive.

Like when her mother, without a word, would fill Maryam's bowl with food she had made just for her. The taste of home in every bite, the labor of her hands woven into the very fabric of the meal.

Or when her father would walk by her room in the dead of night, and without looking, he would make sure her covers were well put, as though the act itself was enough.

These were the things they gave her — silent offerings of love that didn't need to be said aloud.

But sometimes, it was in the silence itself that the love felt the heaviest.

Sometimes when she was studying, her uncle Fawzi would take a fruit — an apple, a pear, whatever it was— and peel it with his hands, his fingers marked by age and time, skin wrinkled like weathered leather.

The quiet rasp of the knife against the fruit was the only sound, and it seemed to echo in the stillness. Then, with the same unhurried grace, he would come to her room, holding the small ceramic dish filled with fruit, its edges delicate like something passed down through generations.

He wouldn't say a word.

He didn't need to.

He'd set the dish gently on her table, his eyes briefly meeting hers, but his gaze would quickly drift to the window, looking out at something only he could see.

He simply showed up, offering his quiet presence, sitting beside her as if he knew the truth of her pain. Of her duties. Of her expectations.

There were no words, just the presence of someone who cared enough to just be.

And then there were the mornings, when she returned from a mission, weary and hollow from the things she'd had to do, and she would find him, always up before the sun, reading the Quran in the dim light of the early hours. The smell of coffee filling the air, the soft hum of prayer on his lips.

His glasses perched low on his nose, hands folded carefully over the pages, lost in the words that had carried him through every hardship of his life. And when he would lift his head and see her, he didn't need to say anything.

A single nod.

That was all.

And she would nod back, because in that simple gesture, everything they needed to say was already understood.

He would leave her small things, too.

A stack of books she had mentioned in passing, a scarf she admired. It was in these small, unnoticed acts of kindness that she felt the weight of her father's absence.

Fawzi's gestures, quiet and steady, filled the space where her father's presence used to be, offering her the things her father would have given if he were still there.

It wasn't loud.

It wasn't brash.

It wasn't seen in the way the world demanded it to be.

But it was there, in the way they moved through the world together, never speaking the emotions they shared, but feeling them all the same.

With her aunts, it was always the same too.

There were the little things, the thoughtful acts that said more than words ever could. If Maryam or one of her sisters mentioned, almost in passing, that they were craving something, like a dish that brought back a taste of home, a memory they could barely hold on to — her aunts would take note.

By the end of the day for example, after school or a long mission, it would be there waiting for her. The smell of Aunt Meysa's cooking would fill the house, wrapping around her like a warm hug. The stew would be perfect, the spices hitting just the right notes, as though her aunt had known exactly what she needed before she did.

From the kitchen, Aunt Meysa would call out, asking how it was or if they wanted more. She never left the stove, though. Never. Her hands were always in motion, like seeming to find purpose in the simple act of providing.

When Maryam fell sick, too weak to leave her bed, it was Aunt Meysa who would quietly slip into the room, presence as calm and steady as the night.

She always came with a small bottle of rose water, its sweet scent filling the air. Her hands, worn and lined with age, moved with practiced care, cooling Maryam's forehead and running the fragrant water gently through her hair. Her voice, soft but sure, would hum prayers in Arabic, each word like a soothing balm.

Meysa's love wasn't showy, but it was everywhere. She would pinch their cheeks and fuss over how much weight they'd lost, whether they'd been away on a long trip or simply hadn't seen each other in a while.

She cooked too much, always making sure no one went hungry, even when everyone insisted they were full. She stitched up torn jackets without being asked, lit candles when the lights flickered, and scolded her nieces ( and anyone else in the house ) with the same no-nonsense affection.

She gossiped a little too much, especially with her family back home. You could hear her from the other rooms, speaking loudly into the phone, always a bit overbearing with everyone at times. But that was still Meysa.

Her care was steady, rooted more in actions than words, a love that felt as enduring as the woman herself. It could be almost too loud, too much, and overwhelming at times—but it was always there, without fail.

Aunt Jamila, Mila, was different.

But not entirely.

She and Maryam had the same presence, the kind that settled into a room and demanded attention without a single word wasted. And her gaze was steady, instincts precise, voice sharp enough to cut through even the most stubborn arguments.

She didn't need to shout or posture; because her authority spoke for itself.

Like Maryam, her love was fierce, though never gentle. Mila didn't show affection through soft embraces or kind whispers. She showed it through action — watching over everyone, ensuring no one fell through the cracks, always staying a step ahead to protect what little she had left.

Still, there was a hardness to her that Maryam had always understood. It wasn't cruelty, but a layer of armor, formed after years of loss that had chipped away at her piece by piece.

The deaths of her brother, Maryam's father, and sister-in-law had left her reeling. She had lost a child she never got to hold, and the man she loved was taken from her far too soon. Then came the close calls, the moments she almost lost her nieces to the chaos that seemed to follow them.

It was enough to drain the light from anyone, but Mila refused to let it consume her. The grief showed in her tired eyes and in the lines around her mouth, but so did her resilience. She had found a way to keep going, to fight for what little remained.

And there was still kindness in her, still a desire to nurture, to care, but it was guarded, tempered by everything she had endured.

She loved, but she loved with the caution of someone who knew how easily love could be lost. Something her and Maryam shared.

And yet, despite the different ways they showed it, both women, their aunts ( their protectors ) embodied the quiet and unwavering strength of their family.

Maryam and her sisters were daughters of immigrants. The truth was simple, and heavy, like the weight of history that pressed down on their shoulders.

They were the daughters of a land that many saw as barren or dangerous, a place where the echoes of war and hardship lingered. They were the ones who bled the tears of their families, who carried their parents' dreams like burdens and their hopes like fragile, delicate things.

In some ways, they felt like they were paying a price for the place they had been born, across the waters, in a land that had forgotten their stories.

It was a sad truth, one that was impossible to shake off, but one they had learned to live with.

It was as though they were born to endure this, like their pain was written in the stars before they even took their first breath. They carried their pasts with them, tucked deep inside, and yet, it was the future — fragile, uncertain — that they were trying to hold on to, hoping that someday, somewhere, the weight of it all might finally feel like less.

They were women, and like all women on this planet, they were burdened with expectations.

Their lives, woven with the threads of tradition and survival, shaped by a world that never let them breathe freely, never gave them space to be just themselves.

There was always a weight, always something pressing down on their shoulders, and it was a weight that no one could truly understand unless they too had lived in the quiet, unspoken confines of it.

A woman's place, her role, her duty — it was all predetermined, never questioned. Society had a way of suffocating, of dictating what a woman could and couldn't be.

And so, breathing deeply, fully, was never easy for them. They breathed in expectations, not air.

And love? Romance? It was something they rarely spoke of. It wasn't something they could afford to focus on, not with everything else pulling at them, demanding their attention.

The idea of love ( true, messy, beautiful, wild love ) seemed distant, like a fleeting dream. They never really talked about it seriously.

Sure, there were the occasional teasing comments from Aunt Meysa or Aunt Jamila — playful, harmless jabs delivered with warm smiles and a glint of mischief in their eyes. It was never anything serious, just lighthearted banter meant to make her laugh or maybe blush. It was a joke. A game. Speculations whispered over cups of tea or shared in the family group chat with winking emojis.

But beneath the surface, it always felt like there was something heavier lingering, an undercurrent she couldn't ignore. Expectations. That word loomed over everything, didn't it? The subtle weight behind every jest, every knowing glance.

Expectations.

Duty.

Obligation.

Whatever name you gave it, it was always there, shaping her choices, pressing against her thoughts, reminding her of what others hoped she would become.

It was as if they had learned, through years of silence and restraint, to shelve those desires, to bury them under layers of duties and responsibilities.

Love was something that happened to others, rarely to them.

Because in the world they inhabited, there was no room for love to be messy. No room for love to be a loud, passionate thing. It had to fit into the spaces between the cracks, quietly, carefully, as though to express it too fully would be to invite chaos into lives already crammed with too much.

So they never spoke about it in the open.

It wasn't that Maryam didn't feel it — God, she did. Love pulsed through her like an ache she couldn't soothe, a need she couldn't admit. But she had learned to bury it deep, to lock it away where no one could see.

She carried it quietly, hidden in the same way her family kept their dreams tucked away and their sorrows unspoken, as if even acknowledging them might shatter something fragile.

Love, she had been taught, was a luxury.

A rare indulgence, too costly for someone like her to dwell on. Time spent longing for it was time wasted—dangerous, even. And when she did speak of it, her words were careful, clipped. Brief, fleeting, like a wisp of smoke disappearing before it could linger.

To desire love, to openly long for it, was to risk exposing herself — her softness, her humanity —in a world that had never been kind to such things.

Maybe it was just her—maybe it was because of her training, her life, her choices, and all the countless things that had shaped her. Probably. Yes, probably. Because when she looked at her sister Warda and the life she had built with her husband, it seemed so natural, so effortless. So... there.

They had met when they were young, during their university days, in a quiet library aisle filled with books. And somehow, it just clicked. It was the kind of love story that made people smile, the kind that her aunts had celebrated with such delight. Finally! they had exclaimed, clapping their hands in joy. Warda and her husband were, as Aunt Jamila would say, a match made in heaven.

So maybe that was why Maryam had always felt disconnected from the idea of dating or love. She had never had the chance to explore it, not fully—not with the life she had lived, the demands placed upon her. And yet, she was a staunch romantic at heart, quietly treasuring the idea of love even if it had always seemed out of reach.

Until Bruce, maybe.

She wasn't sure if she was in love with him — it seemed far too soon to even entertain the thought.

But she liked him.

She liked his company, the way his rare, secretive smile was meant only for her. She liked the way he shared his secrets with her, revealing parts of himself he didn't show anyone else. She liked his silence, too — the quiet understanding that passed between them. They didn't always need words; a simple glance was enough for them to know what the other was thinking, what they were feeling.

She liked his kisses the most.

The way he seemed to pour all his devotion, all the words he couldn't say, into each one. She liked the way he seemed to lose himself in them, whether slow and unhurried or quick and desperate. It didn't matter — she liked it all. The way he kissed her with an intensity that spoke of things he couldn't express in any other way.

It made her feel wanted, understood, and ( strangely ) whole.

A soft, lingering smile played on her lips as she entered Aunt Meysa's apartment, still lost in the memory of their kiss at the bay.

She could still feel the heat of it, the way it made her blush, the way his lips on her neck had left her frustrated and wanting more. His kisses had burned with an intensity that left her breathless, especially the ones on her lips — now still slightly bruised from the way he had kissed her, as if marking her.

They were a balm to the scratch the Riddler had left on her upper lip, the lingering sting now softened by the memory of Bruce's touch.

She shut the door behind her with a quiet click and slipped off her shoes, letting the comfort of the apartment envelop her.

The day had been long ( understandably so ) and her throat was parched from the constant strain of it all. Without a second thought, she made her way toward the kitchen, her feet padding softly against the floor, mind still a little lost in the warmth of that moment by the bay.

As she filled her cup with water, she felt the buzz of her phone against the fabric of her scrubs. She pulled it out, the screen still cracked from when the Riddler had thrown it down, but thankfully it remained functional enough for her to use.

The notification was from an unknown contact. Maryam brought the cup to her lips, careful not to touch her bruise, and hesitated before opening the message. It could be the Riddler, or maybe just a person who'd accidentally sent her a message.

When she opened it, her breath caught in her throat. The message read:

"It's Bruce. I trust you won't share this number with anyone. I'll be in touch."

The straightforwardness, the lack of any warmth or unnecessary words, felt distinctly like him —no humor, no games, just a simple message.

She smiled again, biting her lip gently as she typed a response: Duly noted. But her fingers hesitated. Should she add an emoji? Maybe a heart? No, that would be too much, too embarrassing. Instead, she settled on a simple salute emoji and hit send.

After that, she saved the number under the name Zorro. She couldn't help but smile at the ridiculousness of the nickname, but it felt right somehow.

It was stupid, yes, but it was also theirs — something she could hold onto.

"Who're you smiling at?"

The voice startled her, making her jump slightly. It was Aunt Meysa, stepping into the kitchen still dressed in her prayer clothes.

"Nothing. No one. Just a video," Maryam answered quickly, slipping her phone into the back pocket of her scrubs.

The doctor was still wearing Bruce's jacket, and it still carried his scent. She didn't even know if she looked okay; probably not, with the bruises on her lips and the hastily fixed hair she'd tried to make look decent in the elevator.

It wasn't a rule, but she didn't want Meysa asking questions.

And if her aunt noticed the bruising, she didn't say a word. Instead she leaned against the small coffee counter in the kitchen, eyes narrowing slightly as she watched Maryam, who was already rummaging through the fridge.

The front of the refrigerator was covered in old family photos,  all held up by mismatched magnets. There were her parents, sitting on the porch of their home, Maryam sitting on her mother's lap and baby Sherine resting on her father's. Warda played on the ground.

Then, there were the beach pictures : young Maryam and her sisters, tanned and carefree, laughter almost audible through the faded edges of the photo.

One picture stood out — young Moncef pulling a funny face, his playful spirit contagious, with Rania beside him, smile bright and full of mischief. Another showed Warda, kissing Maryam's cheek with all the warmth of a sister's love, while Sherine enveloped her in a tight hug. Another of Alma and Rania were caught mid-laughter on a swing, eyes gleaming with the simple joy of childhood.

And there was Maryam, simply cradling baby Alma in her small arms. In the corner, tucked carefully, was her high school graduation photo, another milestone, another step forward. Scattered among the pictures were a few cut-out articles from Sherine's job. Other family members' faces smiled up from the collage, their eyes frozen in time.

It was all they had left of their past lives—pictures. Fragments of memories, frozen in time.

The fridge light flickered as she opened it, scanning the contents.

"And how was your day?" Aunt Meysa asked, voice softer now.

Oh, nothing, she thought bitterly. Just got back from work and almost got murdered by a psychotic maniac.

Instead, she lied. "Uneventful. The hospital's always busy, you know, the usual." She pulled a yogurt from the fridge and closed the door with a soft thud.

Aunt Meysa hummed thoughtfully, her arms crossed as she watched Maryam take a spoonful.

"So, what's his name?"

Maryam blinked, caught off guard. "Huh?"

"Speak. God and Aunt Meysa are listening," her aunt pressed.

"You don't make any sense, Aunt Meysa," Maryam muttered, shaking her head.

"And you think I'm an idiot," Meysa shot back. "That's not your jacket."

Maryam tilted her head back, exasperated.

"It's—" She hesitated.

What were they, really? Partners? Friends? A couple? Was he her boyfriend? The word felt too heavy, too final, so she settled on, "A friend, Aunt Meysa."

Meysa hummed again, clearly unconvinced, but didn't press further. She knew her niece had a fortress around her emotions, it was like talking to a brick wall sometimes.

"But you're okay, right?" her aunt asked, her voice thick with that familiar accent. The sound of the clock ticking and Uncle Fawzi's bird chirping in its cage filled the silence. "You're bruised," she said, her words hesitant.

"Of course," Maryam replied, offering a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I bruised myself, bumped into a table without meaning to."

She picked at her yogurt, the spoon moving absently as she added, almost reluctantly, "He would never do that. Never hurt me."

Her aunt glanced down, not quite buying the explanation, but she didn't press. She just sighed, the same tired sigh that had become all too familiar.

"Is he handsome, at least?" Meysa asked then, her tone softening, though there was a hint of playfulness beneath it.

Maryam spooned the last bit of yogurt into her mouth, then tossed the spoon into the dishwasher. "Extremely," she muttered, almost begrudgingly.

"I knew it!" Meysa exclaimed, a triumphant grin spreading across her face.

Maryam rolled her eyes. "That doesn't mean anything."

"Yes, it does!" Meysa insisted, stepping closer. "When can we meet him?"

"Aunt Meysa—"

"Mimi, you never date. You never even talk about dating —"

"Because she doesn't have a dating life," a voice interrupted from the doorway.

Maryam turned sharply, her almond eyes narrowing as Alma strolled in, arms crossed over her chest.

Her auburn hair stuck out in wild angles, a telltale sign of a deep nap. Her face was still puffy from sleep, and her mismatched pajamas were disheveled, with one pant leg bunched up to her knee.

"Alma," Maryam sighed, already bracing herself.

"What? It's true," Alma replied, smirking as she leaned against the doorframe.

Maryam set the yogurt cup down on the counter with a deliberate thud. "It's not your business," she said evenly, though her patience was wearing thin.

"Isn't it? You're all in mine."

Maryam inhaled slowly, already regretting the last few weeks. This wasn't about her, no, it was obviously about payback. Alma hadn't forgiven her for poking around about her Italian boyfriend.

"You really want to do this now?" Maryam quipped, her almond eyes locking onto Alma's puffy, sleep-softened ones. Her gaze carried a silent, sharp warning: Back the fuck off.

But Alma, predictably, didn't flinch. "Why not?" she replied with that infuriating lightness, sauntering over to the table where Aunt Meysa sat peeling apples with practiced ease. Without hesitation, Alma snagged a slice, popped it into her mouth, and bit down with a deliberate crunch.

Maryam's jaw tightened, her patience fraying at the edges.

Her younger sister's nonchalance was like a spark to dry tinder, especially when Alma leaned casually against the table, clearly enjoying the moment.

"What are you two talking about?" Aunt Meysa's voice cut through the tension. She'd switched to Arabic, as if to ground them in family decorum. She was now seated at the small kitchen table, peeling an apple with the precision of someone who'd been doing it for decades.

Maryam turned to her aunt, trying to smooth the irritation from her face. "Nothing important," she muttered in Arabic, hoping her aunt would drop it.

"It doesn't sound like nothing," Meysa said, her sharp brown eyes flicking between them. She popped a piece of apple into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

Alma wasn't about to let it go. "Just Maryam avoiding questions about her non-existent love life," she said, also in Arabic, tossing her hair over her shoulder for emphasis.

"And how about—"

"What?" Alma interrupted, looking far too pleased with herself. "You always lecture me about being honest, and now you're dodging questions? Hypocritical much?"

Maryam clenched her jaw, her patience threadbare. "Ya Allah, Alma, enough," she said, her tone a warning.

"Girls," Aunt Meysa interjected, not missing a beat. She waved her knife slightly for emphasis before setting it down. "Whatever this is, sort it out. Preferably without involving me or my fruit."

Alma smirked but said nothing, expression triumphant as if she'd scored some invisible victory. Maryam, on the other hand, took a steadying breath, her fingers curling around the edge of the counter as she willed herself to stay composed.

Then Alma, ever the instigator, leaned forward with a grin that could set a room on fire. "No, come on, Mimi. Tell us about your new boyfriend."

Maryam shot her sister a withering glare, exasperation dripping from her voice. "Do you ever stop talking?"

Alma shrugged, completely unbothered. "Not when it's this entertaining."

Maryam smirked, leaning back against the counter, clearly done playing nice. "You know what's more entertaining? Vittorio."

The name landed like a spark in a gas-filled room.

Alma's face turned crimson, her posture stiffening as she sucked in a sharp breath. "You did NOT!"

"I just did," Maryam replied coolly, taking a bite of her apple slice like she hadn't just dropped a bomb.

Alma's voice rose, indignant and defensive. "He's not my boyfriend! I don't even talk about him anymore!"

Maryam raised a brow, feigning an expression of saintly innocence. "Well, I do hope for you, habibti."

But Alma wasn't letting it go. "You don't even know him like I do!"

Maryam's eyes narrowed. "Oh, trust me, I do."

Alma scoffed, ready to lash out. "It's not like I'll end up—"

"No, do you know where you'll actually end up?" Maryam's voice cut through the air, cold and sharp as a shard of glass. "In a fucking casket, Alma."

The room went silent, save for Aunt Meysa's dramatic gasp.

"Maryam!" she admonished, staring at the sisters in a mix of shock and disapproval. Her gaze darted between them, expression demanding answers. "Who are you guys even talking about?"

The sisters turned to her in unison, their voices overlapping in perfect synchronization. "No one."

Their mutual glare resumed almost immediately, tension crackling in the air like a summer storm.

Meysa sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose as she muttered, "Allah yihdikum."

She pushed herself up from her chair with the slow grace of someone who had endured too many sibling squabbles in her lifetime. "You two will be the death of me I swear," she grumbled as she left the kitchen, shaking her head.

Once she was gone, Maryam turned back to Alma, voice low and firm. "You're lucky she's here. Otherwise—"

"Otherwise what hm?" Alma interrupted, the defiance in her eyes refusing to dim.

Maryam exhaled deeply, swallowing the sharp retort that lingered on the edge of her tongue.

She was too drained to argue any further.

Instead, she fixed Alma with a firm look and said, "Listen carefully, because I'll only say this once as your older sister: stay away from the Falcones. They're not people you can trust, and they're definitely not people you want to get tangled up with."

She turned toward the kitchen door but paused in the doorway, glancing back over her shoulder.

"We've got enough curses of our own to bear. Don't let their poison seep into what's left of us."

────୨ৎ────

For the rest of the evening, Maryam sat on the couch with her aunt, watching a Turkish drama. Alma was on the other side, arms crossed and still clearly mad, but she was watching too, her occasional sighs betraying her interest.

Meysa didn't bring up what had happened earlier, her attention fully captured by the show's over-the-top twists and turns.

Maryam liked them too, even if they were cheesy and predictable. They offered an escape, a chance to disconnect from the grim realities of her work. Watching the dramatized lives of others, no matter how absurd, felt like a small act of self-preservation, a way to keep her mind from slipping into the darkness of death and tragedy she dealt with daily.

At some point, while the drama played on, Maryam scrolled through her phone, glancing at headlines. She wasn't surprised when another breaking news alert popped up. Her aunt had fallen asleep on the couch, her breathing soft, and Maryam reached for the remote to turn the volume down.

Alma groaned, annoyed, but didn't object.

The news anchor's voice crackled through the speakers, calm but warning. "The recording was provided to GCL by Lieutenant James Gordon of the Gotham PD. I should caution you, the contents are disturbing."

Maryam and Alma sat in tense silence, their eyes glued to the screen.

On the TV, the words flashed in bold across the bottom :

"RECLUSIVE CRIME BOSS RECORDED COMMITTING MURDER—ADMITS TO BEING MAFIA INFORMANT."

Then came the sound. A voicemail, tinny and haunting.

A man's voice, one Maryam could recognize anywhere, that same unsettling, honeyed tone that always carried an edge of menace. Falcone.

Through the speakers, his words spilled out. "...ohhhh... he told you about that, huh? A deal?"

Then, a younger woman's voice, sharp and cautious. "Yeah, a long time ago. He said you gave some information... on some drops thing."

The more they listened, the more the air seemed to tighten, an eerie heaviness creeping into the room. Alma's breathing hitched as the audio shifted, an argument, muffled shouting, and then, a woman's scream.

Maryam quickly reached for the remote, lowering the volume to avoid waking their aunt, who was dozing softly in the corner.

She turned to Alma, whose hands had drifted to her mouth, fingers nervously biting at her nails. "Stop that," Maryam murmured, trying to ground herself as much as her sister.

But her own heart was racing, and her palms were clammy against the remote.

"See what happens?" Maryam said, her tone sharper than she meant it to be.

Alma turned her head abruptly, her face betraying her attempt to hold herself together.

Tears shimmered in her eyes, but she blinked them away, her jaw tightening as she stared down at her trembling hands.

She clasped them together, her fingers squeezing so tightly her knuckles turned pale.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Maryam didn't reach out, didn't offer any soothing words.

She just watched, her expression neutral, even distant. It wasn't that she didn't care ( she did, deeply ) but affection between them had always been... complicated.

When they were younger, it had been different.

Back then, Maryam used to kiss Alma and their other sisters on the cheek, wrapping them up in hugs that seemed too big for her small frame. They'd laugh until their stomachs hurt, make up silly dances, and play games with whatever scraps of imagination they could conjure. It had been simple then, effortless even.

But now? Now it felt distant, like a faded photograph tucked away in a box no one opened anymore.

Sure, there were still the occasional gestures : a kiss on the cheek in the mornings or a half-hearted squeeze on the arm. It wasn't nothing, but it wasn't what it used to be either.

When emotions like this surfaced — raw, overwhelming ones like Alma's — they didn't know how to handle them.

So they just sat there.

Maryam stayed silent, giving her sister space to gather herself, to process it alone.

And yeah, they still had their moments, teasing each other, exchanging insults in the way only siblings could. But when it came to the deeper feelings, the ones that cracked through their defenses, it always felt... clumsy.

Taking a breath, Alma finally spoke. "He was never more than a friend. He's the one who keeps insisting, and I keep rejecting him." Her thumb moved to her mouth, a habit she hadn't shaken since childhood. "We met the other day at the restaurant—you know, the one where those photos ended up all over the tabloids. It was just to talk business."

Maryam raised a brow. "And what kind of business do you even have with him?"

"That's the thing," Alma said, her voice tinged with frustration. "He said he wanted me to help him legitimize his business. I thought it was fucking stupid— I'm still studying for the bar exams, Maryam. I'm not even a lawyer yet. So why me? He could've hired someone more experienced, someone more... trusted. But he kept insisting, and I gave in."

She hesitated, feeling the weight of her sisters' stares, their eyes sharp with that are you serious? look. Alma raised her hands to her face, hiding behind them as if it could shield her from the the confession.

Her voice dropped, barely a whisper, muffled behind her fingers. "Okay, fine! I gave in because I had a crush on him." Not that it made things any better, but at least it made more sense now.

But Maryam didn't say anything. She didn't criticize or offer any cutting remarks.

She just listened.

"I know I didn't have a chance. I mean, look at me!" Alma laughed bitterly, pulling her hands away. "He only goes for blondes with blue eyes. Italians or Greeks, at most. And most of them are models—not that I stalked him or anything."

Her voice quickened, her words spilling out in a messy rush. "But not me. Auburn-haired, brown-eyed girls? We're not exactly his type."

She paused, her gaze flickering to Maryam, searching for some kind of reaction, but when none came, she continued.

"The thing is, I was... interested. He was so nice, Maryam. Always sending thank-you notes, flowers, compliments. He'd show up at the restaurant on weekends— God, he looked so handsome. He was kind, attentive... and I played the hard-to-get part, of course," she said, rolling her eyes.

Her voice softened, growing quieter. "There were times he opened up to me, you know? Talking about his mom, his father, his siblings. And I don't know... I just felt special. Like I mattered to him in a way no one else did."

She sniffled, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. "He said he wanted to help his sister, to get her a shorter sentence. Said Arkham wasn't good for her, that it was wrecking her mental health. He cared about her so much, Maryam. It was like... I don't know, like in those romantic movies. He made me feel confident. Ambitious, even."

Maryam stayed quiet, her expression steady.

"Then one day, I saw—well, heard—something." Alma's voice trembled, her fingers nervously twisting a loose thread on her sleeve. "We were at his uncle's restaurant, just the two of us, and someone came in, whispering something in his ear. He got up so fast, said he'd be back in a minute."

Her hands were shaking now.

She clasped them together, trying to steady herself. "I waited. Ten minutes, maybe. But my curiosity got the better of me. I went to find him." She looked down, her voice barely above a whisper. "And that's when I heard it. A man screaming, begging. Then a gunshot."

The room was filled with silence, thick and heavy.

Maryam didn't move, didn't speak.

She just watched Alma, who sat there, staring at her trembling hands like they belonged to someone else.

"After that, I went back to our table," Alma said, her voice trembling slightly. "When he returned, I made sure everything seemed okay. But inside, I was scared and confused. It all came crashing in, you know? That night, I called him—this was before the mayor's funeral. I told him we needed to stop." She paused, biting her lip. "He said we could meet, and I told him no. But he kept insisting, said he needed to see me one last time."

Maryam didn't interrupt, letting Alma unravel the story at her own pace.

"I met him under the tunnel, our usual place. I gave him what I'd found about legalizing his empire—or whatever it was—and something for his sister, too. I doubt it was anything that would really help. I mean, I'm not even sure I did it right. But I still gave it to him." Alma looked down, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sweater. "He tried to talk to me, but I told him I didn't want to see him anymore. And so far, he's respected that."

Her voice softened to barely a whisper. "He kissed me, and that was it. Since then... nothing."

Maryam leaned back, studying her sister. "What if he had killed you under that bridge, huh?" she asked, tone sharp, but not unkind.

"He wouldn't," Alma said quickly, meeting Maryam's gaze with a flicker of defiance. "I know him."

Maryam didn't press further.

She knew that feeling all too well — the certainty that someone wouldn't harm you, even when logic screamed otherwise. It was the same with Bruce.

"Anyway," Alma continued after a pause, her voice tinged with bitterness. "It doesn't matter anymore. Last I heard, he's with someone new. Private relationship, of course."

Silence settled between them like a heavy weight.

"I'm not going to interfere anymore, Alma," Maryam said finally, her tone steady but tinged with exhaustion. "I wanted to know why he was so adamant about seeing you, and I still don't understand. You know me, and you know what I used to do. I worked for people like him— I know what they're capable of."

She sighed, running a hand through her hair. "But I won't meddle anymore. I've got enough of my own problems. Just... whatever decisions you make from now on, they're on you. Your future is your responsibility. That's all I can say."

Alma nodded, her expression unreadable. Then, without another word, she stood up.

"It's over anyway," she said quietly, and with that, she walked away.

Maryam watched Alma retreat to her bedroom, her sister's shoulders slumped and her movements slow.

She seemed like a mess.

A storm of sadness and confusion wrapped in silence.

It was obvious Alma had cared for him deeply, maybe even more than she wanted to admit. And from what Maryam had seen of Vito, it had seemed mutual.

With a sigh, Maryam ran her hands through her hair again, shaking off the heavy emotions settling in her chest.

Turning her attention back to the TV, she picked up the remote and turned the sound back up.

Her brows furrowed as the news unfolded.

The screen displayed chaos: Falcone, Gotham's untouchable crime boss, had just been arrested, dragged out in front of the Iceberg Lounge, cops surrounding him and, of course, the Bat looming in the shadows.

Then, in a shocking turn, it happened. A shot rang out live on air.

Maryam gasped, her hands flying to cover her mouth.

From the hallway, Alma came running at the sound of the commotion. She froze in place as her eyes locked onto the TV.

The camera cut to the aftermath. The Bat moved swiftly through the pandemonium, but all focus remained on Falcone. He lay sprawled on the ground, blood pooling beneath him. Reporters shouted over one another, their words frantic and unintelligible, adding to the chaos.

"They don't know if he's dead yet," Maryam muttered, her voice low and edged with disbelief. Her hazel eyes didn't leave the screen, scanning every frame for answers.

The sheer surrealness of it all struck her like a blow, the kind that left your chest hollow and your mind racing.

"Fuck," she whispered, leaning back into the chair.

This was bad. Like, real bad.

His death might seem like the end of corruption and evilness, but the medical examiner knew better.

This was going to get Gotham messy.

Everyone would want a piece of the throne left vacant by the now deceased king.

And that may be the least dangerous thing about it.

Because when a vacuum is created, it doesn't just attract predators — it summons the worst kind of chaos, the kind that doesn't just swallow the city whole, but leaves it gasping for air in the dark.

A/N: 10k oof ( not edited so sorry for any weird mistakes )

Hey guys... I'm back :)

I really hope you like this chapter because we finally get into more backstory, especially about the Romanovs... It's still not fully complete ofc, but I wanted to sprinkle in a few things.

AND I hope you weren't too bored reading it; bc honestly, I had a blast writing it.

(meanwhile me : )

So, originally, I planned for Maryam to join Bruce and Gordon to visit Selina, but then I realized... that would've been way too much. Like, I didn't want to force her into every scene from the movies, you know? So instead, I took it in this direction lol

We dive a bit deeper into Maryam's maternal side, and the Romanovs ???? So fascinating. I didn't want to paint it all pretty tho... mainly because I noticed that a lot of fics glamorize the Romanovs and don't really touch on the darker side of things.

It's like with Marie Antoinette... everyone acts like she was this sweet, innocent figure, but people forget why the French Revolution happened. They didn't just wake up one day and decide to kill her... So I really tried to keep it as realistic as I could...

Vito and Alma ....... ??????????¿¿¿¿

ALSO the genocide in Bosnia... It's so heartbreaking, and I'm upset that it's not talked about enough. I hope I did it justice in this chapter :/

I'm super excited for the next one, tho !!

Love u all and thank u again for all the kind comments on my previous notes (which I had to unpublish because, well, it messed with the vibe of the book and mainly because I didn't want to attract more views act it) I still got some hate from anons on Tumblr but they stopped a day or two ago and honestly, their comments just made me want to write more !!!

So, yeah, see u next time lovelies !!! xx ( sorry for the long ass ramble )