I read Zayyen's message one more time.
> The name was recorded not as a patient.
I didn't know why such a simple sentence made me stay silent for so long.
Maybe because, all this time, hospitals had existed in my memory as places people went to seek help.
Not places where someone hid a name.
I looked at my phone.
Then typed:
Hana: As what?
Zayyen's answer didn't come right away.
I waited while staring at my father's black notebook, which was still open on the table.
A few minutes later, my phone vibrated.
Zayyen: Don't know yet.
I smiled faintly.
For some reason, that answer felt more convincing than if he'd immediately given me a conclusion.
Hana: Should we find out tomorrow?
Zayyen: Tomorrow.
I set down my phone.
That night, I didn't try to look for any more answers.
For the first time since all the secrets had begun to surface, I chose to sleep with a few unanswered questions.
Maybe not everything had to be found in a single night.
---ꕤ
The next morning, I arrived on campus early.
Zila was already waiting for me near the library stairs.
The moment she saw my face, she knew something was different.
“You didn't sleep?”
I smiled.
“I slept.”
“How many hours?”
I fell silent.
Zila sighed.
“So, not enough.”
I sat down beside her.
“I want to tell you something.”
“About Zayyen?”
I turned to her.
“How do you always know?”
“Because every time you say, ‘I want to tell you something,’ you look like someone who just found a new problem.”
I let out a small laugh.
Then the smile slowly faded.
I told her everything.
About the letter.
About the documents.
About my father's name.
About Ar-Rahmah Hospital.
Zila listened without interrupting.
When I finished, she didn't immediately give me her opinion.
She only said,
“That means you have two choices now.”
“What?”
“Keep looking, or stop.”
I stared at her.
“If you ask me which one I want…”
“I know.”
Zila smiled.
“But there's one thing you need to remember.”
“What?”
“Don't look for your father just because you want to prove he's still alive.”
I fell silent.
“Look because you want to know the truth.”
I lowered my head.
The sentence was simple.
But it hit the mark.
Because deep down, I knew there was a part of me that wanted to find my father not only to get answers.
I wanted to hear his voice again.
I wanted to know whether he still remembered the way he used to call my name.
I wanted to know whether he'd ever thought about us.
And maybe, without realizing it, I was searching for something bigger than the truth.
I was searching for a chance to stop feeling abandoned.
Zila touched my arm.
“If the answer isn't what you hoped for, you still have to find your way back to yourself.”
I looked at her.
“Thank you.”
“Don't thank me yet.”
“Why?”
“Because I'm not done.”
I laughed.
“What else?”
“If Zayyen confuses you, tell me.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Why?”
“So I can confuse him even more.”
I laughed louder.
For a few seconds, everything felt normal.
And I was grateful for that.
Sometimes, when life feels too heavy, we don't need a long speech.
We just need someone who can make us laugh for a little while.
---ꕤ
That afternoon, Zayyen and I went to Muzi Hospital.
We weren't there to search around blindly.
Zayyen had contacted the administration office beforehand and asked for permission to view old records related to his family.
I waited for him in the lobby.
The building hadn't changed much.
Some parts had been renovated.
But the hospital's distinctive smell was still the same.
There was something strange about standing in a place that had apparently once been part of my parents' lives.
I looked down the long hallway ahead.
For some reason, it felt familiar.
Not like I'd seen it before.
More like I'd been there.
I closed my eyes for a moment.
A few small fragments surfaced in my memory.
White lights.
The sound of a bed's wheels.
Someone's hand holding mine.
Then my father's voice.
“Hana, don't be afraid.”
I opened my eyes.
My breath caught.
Zayyen came from the direction of the administration desk.
“Are you okay?”
I nodded.
“It's just… this place feels familiar.”
“Have you been here before?”
“I don't remember.”
Zayyen didn't force me to remember.
He only said,
“If it's too much, we can go home.”
I looked at him.
“I want to stay.”
“Okay.”
We walked together toward the archives room.
---ꕤ
An elderly staff member helped us search for the documents.
Her name was Ms. Rahma.
She checked several old records.
“These are pretty old,” she said.
“That’s okay, ma’am,” Zayyen replied.
He searched under his father's name first.
A few minutes later, he found a file.
I stood beside him.
Zayyen opened it.
There were examination records.
Dates.
Several signatures.
Then he stopped.
I looked at the document.
My father's name was listed there.
Not as a patient.
I moved closer.
Beside his name, it said:
Special attendant.
I frowned.
“Whose attendant?”
Ms. Rahma looked at the document.
Her expression changed slightly.
“I'm not sure.”
“About five years ago, ma'am,” Zayyen said.
Ms. Rahma put on her glasses.
She read more closely.
Then shook her head.
“Old records like this are usually incomplete by now.”
“Is there another name?”
Ms. Rahma checked the next page.
“Here.”
She pointed to a name.
Haris.
Zayyen and I looked at each other.
But there was a third name.
A name neither of us had expected.
Hana's mother.
I immediately fell silent.
My mother.
Zayyen saw it too.
Neither of us said anything.
Ms. Rahma continued reading.
“It says here that three people had access to one room.”
“What room?” I asked.
Ms. Rahma looked at the number at the top.
“Room 217.”
I looked at Zayyen.
“Not 727?”
He shook his head.
“No.”
I didn't know why that number felt important.
Maybe because, all this time, we'd kept finding numbers and dates we didn't understand.
“Does that room still exist?” I asked.
Ms. Rahma smiled faintly.
“It hasn't been used in a long time.”
“Can we see it?”
She hesitated.
“What for?”
I didn't know how to answer.
Zayyen said,
“We just want to understand what happened to our families five years ago.”
Ms. Rahma looked at us for a moment.
Then stood.
“Then follow me.”
---ꕤ
Room 217 was at the end of the old corridor.
Its door was no longer in use.
The paint had begun to fade.
Ms. Rahma opened it with an old key.
The room was empty.
There was only a small table, a cabinet, and several archive boxes.
I stepped inside slowly.
There was a strange feeling I couldn't explain.
I stood in the middle of the room.
Then, all of a sudden—
I remembered something.
Someone was sitting in a chair.
I was little.
My father was standing in front of me.
There was a woman there.
I couldn't see her face.
Then my father said,
“If you forget later, that's okay.”
I held my breath.
“What matters is that you're safe.”
I opened my eyes.
Zayyen stood a few steps away.
“Hana?”
I didn't answer.
“I remembered something.”
“What?”
“My father brought me here once.”
Zayyen moved closer but still kept his distance.
“Are you sure?”
“I don't know.”
I looked around.
“I only remember his voice.”
“Don't force it.”
I nodded.
Then my gaze fell on a box beneath the table.
There was a small label.
17 / 08.
The same date.
My hand slowly reached for it.
Zayyen helped take down the box.
We opened it.
Inside were only a few old things.
An access card.
A photograph.
And an envelope.
There was no name.
I picked up the photograph first.
It showed my father.
Haris.
And Zayyen's father.
But this time, there was someone else.
My mother.
They were standing in front of Ar-Rahmah Hospital.
I stared at the photograph for a long time.
“So Mom really was here.”
Zayyen nodded.
I turned over the photograph.
There was a handwritten note from my father:
> “We only have one chance to save her.”
I read the sentence slowly.
“Who was saved?”
Zayyen didn't answer.
I picked up the envelope.
There was only one word on the front.
HANA.
My heart began to beat faster.
I opened it.
There wasn't a letter inside.
Instead, there was a small card.
It had a number on it.
And beneath the number, it said:
Subject A-17.
I looked at Zayyen.
“This isn't a person's name.”
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
He shook his head.
I looked back at the photograph.
My father.
My mother.
Haris.
Zayyen's father.
They had all been in the same place.
Five years ago.
And I—
I'd been there too.
It's just that my memory hadn't kept everything.
I closed my eyes.
This time, the fragments came more clearly.
My father's voice.
My mother's voice.
Someone crying.
Then the door opened.
Someone came in.
I tried to remember the face.
I couldn't.
But I heard a name.
Very faintly.
Zayyen.
I opened my eyes.
I looked at him.
“Zayyen.”
“Yeah?”
“Back then… I heard your name once.”
His expression changed.
“What?”
“I don't know how.”
He fell silent.
“I didn't know you back then.”
“I didn't know you either.”
I looked at the photograph.
“But maybe our families already knew each other.”
Zayyen nodded slowly.
There was no smile.
No conclusion.
Only two people standing in an old room, trying to understand something that had happened long before they'd had the chance to choose for themselves.
---ꕤ
When we left the room, the sky had already begun to change color.
We stopped in the hospital courtyard.
I sat on a bench.
Zayyen stood not far from me.
“Tired?”
I nodded.
“A little.”
“We can stop.”
I looked at him.
“If we stop now, will everything stop too?”
“No.”
I smiled faintly.
“Then we'll continue tomorrow.”
He nodded.
I looked up at the sky.
Something inside me had changed.
I still wanted to find my father.
But now I no longer wanted to force the past to give me the answers I wanted.
I only wanted to know what had really happened.
And if the truth turned out to hurt—
I wanted to accept it calmly.
Zayyen sat at the end of the bench.
Not too close.
“Are you scared?”
I nodded.
“Yes.”
“Me too.”
I turned to him.
“You?”
“Yeah.”
I smiled a little.
“At least this time, I'm not alone.”
Zayyen didn't answer.
He only stared at the road in front of us.
A few seconds later, he said,
“Don't get the wrong idea.”
I turned to him.
“What?”
“I'm staying with you not because I want you to depend on me.”
I fell silent.
“I just know what it's like to search for an answer that never comes.”
I smiled.
“Maybe that's what helps us understand each other.”
“Maybe.”
The evening breeze moved gently.
For a moment, there was no past.
No Haris.
No documents.
No secrets.
Only two people sitting in a hospital courtyard.
And a feeling they still hadn't given a name.
---ꕤ
That night, before going to sleep, I opened my father's black notebook.
I reread the sentence I'd found.
Don't trust Haris.
I picked up a pencil and turned to the next page.
There were traces of another message.
I shaded over it slowly.
A sentence emerged.
I read it in silence.
> “If Hana meets that boy, don't separate them before she learns the truth.”
I froze.
That boy.
Zayyen.
I read it again.
Then a question surfaced in my mind.
If my father had written that we shouldn't be separated…
why had someone been trying to keep me away from Zayyen all this time?
And for the first time, I began to wonder—
maybe it wasn't my meeting Zayyen that I needed to fear.
Maybe…
there was someone who was afraid we'd discover why we'd been brought together.
TO BE CONTINUED — EPISODE 11