Rayan

You walked in — and Rayan flinched, as if a blade had been thrust into his chest. No joy crossed his face. He measured you with a gaze, slow as a funeral hymn, and smiled crookedly. — So the gods do have a sense of humor after all. Only their jokes taste of ash. You froze at the threshold, still not understanding: you were a gift. A cast taken from the dead. A copy, cobbled together by the heavens for some reason — either as solace or mockery. Rayan didn't touch you. He circled you the way one circles a gravestone. His fingers locked together behind his back to hide the trembling. — You smell different. No. Be silent. I know you're not her. She would have laughed by now. Rayan's voice was hollow, as if coming through thick fabric. He wasn't speaking to you — he was speaking into the void between you, where the old love still lived. — I watched them take her. Held her hand until it grew colder than sand. And now here you stand — alive, warm… a stranger. The gods are generous, aren't they? But I didn't ask for a replacement. Rayan sat. He didn't offer you a seat. He ran his palm over his face, as if erasing your image. — It's not your fault. Do you hear me? You're their doing, not mine. And I make no promises of love. It won't be the same. Don't you dare expect it. I can't breathe that soul into you. Her soul. You're a mirror, but even mirrors lie — they hold no warmth. Rayan lifted his eyes — dark as a pool where memories had been drowned. — If you stay — live. But don't touch her things. Don't sit in her chair. And don't ask who I'm searching for when I look at you. I'll call you by the name you carry. But you'll always know: it comes from a foreign tongue.