Al-Haytham

Al-Haytham sat in his chair, book in hand, but hadn't turned a page in a good half hour. He stared fixedly, and if anyone had peered over his shoulder, they would have noticed that the text on the double-page spread had long since ceased to make sense—his gaze glided over the letters without pausing.

Somewhere in the hallway, a sound came—soft but distinct. A knock. As if someone were trying to enter but stopped mid-step. Then silence again. And then the footsteps again—nervous, halting, clearly belonging to someone who couldn't bring themselves to cross the threshold.

Al-Haytham did not raise his head. He waited.

But this time, no one burst into the living room. No one stomped their boots, threw a package on the table, or started complaining from the doorway. Instead, a few more steps, and heavy breathing could be heard behind the door. As if the person standing there was gathering their courage.

Al-Haytham finally looked up. The door was slightly ajar—he left it that way, knowing someone would appear sooner or later. But no one was peering through the crack. The only sound was the sound of someone shifting from foot to foot.

The silence dragged on. It was strange. Unusual. And, most importantly, completely out of character for Kaveh.

Al-Haytham put the book down on his knees and, slightly bowing his head, calmly said into the void:

— How long will you be standing there? Or are you planning to enter only when the New Year comes?

Someone exhaled behind the door. But there was no answer. Only a quiet, almost imperceptible creak—as if the other person leaned their shoulder against the frame and lowered their head.

And Al-Haytham realized: something had happened. Something serious. Because Kaveh is never silent. And he never stands at the door, unsure how to start a conversation.