Rami returned home, dragging his steps as if every stone on the road weighed heavier on his heart. That night, the house was no longer a home—it was a small graveyard, its walls still holding his sister's breath, its corners echoing a laughter that would never return. He wandered through the rooms with tear-soaked eyes, touching objects as though Mira were still there.
He tried to sleep, but sleep no longer knew the way to his eyes. Every time he closed them, the doors of nightmares opened, and he found himself face to face with her fading image, calling to him from a distant place. A message from Hina blinked on his phone: "Are you okay?" … but he shut the screen, as if afraid he would collapse the moment he typed a single word.
That night was hell—not a hell of fire, but a hell of memories.
Three days later, he stopped going to school. At Hina's school, she tried to talk to him, but in vain. Her friend asked:
— "Why do you care about him when he doesn't even notice you?"
Hina replied with heavy calm:
— "He lost his sister… that alone is enough for me to understand his silence."
Her friend said:
— "Sad… but it seems you know more about him than you admit."
Hina sighed:
— "He was bound to her completely. She wasn't just a sister, she was his whole family. His mother died when he was five, and his sister carried his mother's will, her last request, on her shoulders. Their father abandoned them, so Mira was his entire life, not just half of it."
Her friend smirked:
— "So, you're his lover?"
Hina quickly shook her head:
— "No… we've just been neighbors since childhood, nothing more."
Meanwhile, in his house, Rami was gathering Mira's belongings, placing each item in a box as if it were a part of her body. Suddenly, he noticed a small locked notebook. He tried to open it but failed, and ignored it. Hours later, a police officer arrived carrying another box of Mira's things. Rami took it in silence, while the officer placed a hand on his shoulder and said:
— "If you need anything, here's my number."
But Rami barely lifted his eyes. Back in his room, while sifting through blood-stained belongings, his gaze fell upon a small pendant in the shape of a key. He froze for a moment… a diary! He rushed to it and unlocked it, and the pages exploded with memories of Mira he had never known.
The first entry was dated six months ago. As he read, his face twisted—boiling anger, widening shock. Mira had written about abuse, humiliation, and names… names of people who carved wounds into her soul.
He called the officer:
— "I found something…"
The officer read the diary, then answered with cold bureaucratic indifference:
— "This isn't enough to prove she didn't commit suicide… I'm sorry."
At that moment, Rami felt that justice was an empty word. On his way back, he opened the last page. Four names were written there, as though they were a death list:
Daniel – Yoon – Matthew – Izbal.
With a hoarse whisper, he swore:
— "I swear I'll avenge you, my sister… even if it costs me my life."
Days later, Hina stood before his house. She rang the bell repeatedly, but no answer came. A neighbor told her:
— "The young man who lived here? He left."
Meanwhile, Rami was on a train, staring at his laptop screen, researching the four names, his eyes burning with tears and rage. In his heart, only one path remained—
the path of vengeance.