03/10/2025
The dust of the desert swirled around Omar's boots, mirroring the turmoil in his heart. Thirty years. Thirty years since the raid, since the bandits had taken his son, Elias, during a time when the desert held more shadows than stars. Thirty years of gnawing hate, of sleepless nights fueled by vengeance.
He clutched the weathered, hand-drawn map in his calloused hand. It depicted a remote oasis, a whispered legend amongst the Bedouin, said to be a haven for outlaws. He'd tracked them for years, these shadows, and now, finally, he was close.
He rode on, his silhouette sharp against the setting sun. He’d envisioned this moment countless times: the confrontation, the reckoning. He’d rehearsed the words, the harshness, the satisfaction he imagined would flood him when he finally…
He saw them then, a small camp nestled amongst the date palms. Smoke curled lazily into the azure sky. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat urging him forward. He dismounted, his hand instinctively reaching for the curved dagger at his hip.
As he stalked towards the camp, a figure emerged. Tall, lean, with eyes that held the same firelight as the setting sun. He recognized him instantly. The same proud carriage, the same stubborn jawline, the ghost of the same gap-toothed grin that had once charmed him.
It was Elias.
A wave of confusion crashed over Omar, silencing the years of carefully constructed rage. He stood frozen, his hand still hovering near his dagger.
"Father?" The word, spoken in a voice roughened by the desert wind, cracked the silence.
Omar stumbled forward, his legs feeling heavy. He could see the weariness etched onto Elias's face, the lines of hardship that painted a life lived under a sun that showed no mercy.
Elias gestured, beckoning him closer. "Come. Sit with me."
Omar followed, numb. He sat down on a woven rug, the dust of the desert settling around him. A fire crackled, casting dancing shadows on the rough canvas of their faces.
"I heard rum
