Another Civil Farewell
The morning air was cool and still, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and wilted flowers. A pale sun struggled to break through heavy clouds, casting a soft, gray light that blurred the edges of everything. The world felt hushed, as if holding its breath—waiting, mourning.
The ground beneath my feet was uneven and soft, disturbed recently by heavy hands and machines. I could hear the muted murmur of prayers floating through the air, but they felt distant, like echoes from another place. Around me, faces were solemn, eyes downcast, voices quiet.
The weight of grief settled on me like the morning fog—thick and cold and hard to shake.
They call this a civil farewell. I never liked that term. Too neat. Too gentle. As if this kind of parting could ever be orderly—clean. It wasn't.
There was nothing civil about watching the last warm thing in your life slip away.
Nothing civil about walking through a quiet morning holding grief like it was just another bag of groceries.
The ceremony was small. Just enough people to say it wasn't lonely.
I stood there, not really hearing the prayers. The earth looked too soft, too easily moved.
I stared at it, wondering if she'd feel cold down there. Wondering if she'd mind the silence.
Someone stepped beside me. No words. Just presence.
A hand rested on my shoulder. Steady. Heavy with history.
I looked up. Mr. Azouzi. He nodded once. I looked away again, eyes forward.
"I told her, you know?" I said quietly. "That you asked about her."
He didn't answer. Just waited.
"I saw that she was happy someone noticed her absence… even if she pretended not to like it."
That got a breath of a smile out of him.
"Ah! Don't tell me you accused me of poetry again. She always scolds me when you do that—says it's embarrassing, especially with us."
"Nope, just romantics this time."
"That, I can't deny."
I hesitated, voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know what to do from now on… without her. I don't know if I can go back to that house."
He shifted, eyes softening with something like understanding and pain. A pause.
"This must be hard. First your parents, and now her," he said quietly, his voice rough but steady.
I swallowed, feeling the weight of the silence between us.
"How about you come stay with us for a while?" he offered gently, the hand on my shoulder squeezing just a little.
I looked at him then, really looked—his face lined with quiet sorrow, but steady, like a rock in a storm.
I didn't say anything. There wasn't anything left to say.
We just stood there, shoulder to shoulder.
Two people who loved the same woman, in different ways.
And now—without her.
The moving on
Five months passed since that cold farewell.
The town had returned to its slow rhythms, but I hadn't.
My world still spun in silence.
The days blurred together, each one heavy and hollow.
Today was my seventeenth birthday.
The sky was gray, the air dry and cool.
The kind of weather that feels like a pause between endings and beginnings.
"Are you sure you didn't forget anything?" Mr. Azouzi asked, standing beside me as I loaded the last bag into the back of the taxi.
I closed the trunk with a dull thud, then slung my backpack over my shoulder.
"No," I said, eyes scanning the quiet street behind us. "I'm pretty sure I have everything I need right here."
He didn't reply, just nodded slowly. I caught the faint worry in his eyes, but neither of us spoke it aloud.
The familiar sounds of the town surrounded us—the clatter of shutters, the distant barking of dogs, and the faint chatter of neighbors going about their day. It was a quiet farewell in itself.
"Remember," Mr. Azouzi said softly, "if things get too hard, or if you just need a place to catch your breath—you know where to find us."
I swallowed hard. "Thank you. I might take you up on that."
His smile was faint but genuine. "Don't be a stranger, Ousse."
I stepped forward and offered my hand. He took it firmly, a silent promise exchanged between us.
I opened the taxi door and got in. The seat was warm from the sun, the fabric rough under my palms.
The taxi door slammed shut. The engine rumbled to life. As the vehicle pulled away, I watched the only home I'd ever known grow smaller and smaller.
As the car pulled away from the curb, I kept my eyes fixed on the rearview mirror—watching the town grow smaller, the rooftops fade, the past blur into distance.
The city of Gazelle stretched out ahead of me—a sprawling, restless place caught between sea and stone.
To the west, golden beaches stretched like open hands, the waves crashing endlessly into the shore.
To the east, the mountains rose in jagged silence, their peaks dusted with snow even in summer.
Gazelle was everything my hometown wasn't.
Loud.
Wide.
Alive.
Markets overflowed with shouting voices and bright colors.
Roads twisted into alleys and climbed into hills, each turn offering something new—work, movement, noise, distraction.
But what stood out most—what had haunted me since the first time I saw it—was the shadow that loomed over it all.
I'd noticed it the first time I came here with Mr. Azouzi, two months ago, when we searched for a place I could live.
I remember asking him about it—the dark spire rising far in the distance, too tall and too still to be just a building.
He told me it was called the Ancient Tower. No one knew who built it.
No records, no dates, no origin.
Just silence and stories. They said it had been standing since the dawn of time.
But I knew it by another name.
A name I never dared say aloud. A name buried in old pages and forbidden whispers.
The Tower of God.
Though everyone else had forgotten—or chosen to forget—I hadn't. I knew what it really was. Or at least, what it could be.
Now, returning alone, the city felt different. Heavier. The tower no longer just a shape on the horizon, but a presence. Something waiting.
The taxi wound through the streets until it stopped in front of a tired building wedged between a busy café and a closed-down bookstore.
"Here we are," the driver muttered.
I stepped out, slinging my bag over my shoulder again. The air smelled faintly of oil and rain. The sky overhead stayed that same pale gray, as if the city existed under a film of dust.
The building looked older than I remembered—peeling paint, rusted balconies, and a staircase with a crack running right down the middle.
I climbed the steps slowly, the wheels of my duffel bag bumping behind me. The hallway inside was dim, the lights flickering weakly above faded tiles. The place smelled like old wood and forgotten things.
At the third floor, I stopped in front of a door with a faded number, then slid the key into the lock. It turned with a dry, reluctant click.
The apartment inside was as gloomy as the day. Small, narrow, and silent. The walls were stained in places. The window was smeared with dirt, filtering in only a dull, lifeless glow.
I dropped my bag by the door and walked across the creaking floor to the window.
Outside, past rooftops and cables, the Ancient Tower stood in the distance—darker than the clouds behind it. Still. Unshaken. Watching.
It had watched long before I got here. And I had a feeling it would keep watching long after I was gone.
My fingers curled slightly against the windowsill. I stared at the tower, the silence of the room wrapping around me like a noose.
"There..." I whispered. "There's where my suffering ends. Where my miserable life finally stops."
The words didn't feel dramatic. Just honest.
I turned away from the window, and let the silence close in.
This was where it would all end.
—Or so I thought.