#aawy

Al-Haitham wakes up from a fitful sleep and knows that something is wrong.

It is not the kind of knowing that is based on facts. It is not solid knowledge—that the bones in his body can break or that dusk birds perch on the roof of his house—and nor is it theory—that Visions come from strong ambitions or that light refracts. It is instinct. Something pounding in his chest, like waking from a nightmare, the gut feeling that something is off, something is wrong, something is—

The light filters through the glass-paned window, casting the gentle colors of early morning across the desk and the bookshelves in his room. Al-Haitham takes a deep breath. The air is not thick with anything except his own thoughts.

So he tries to settle them. He is not easily rattled—a man who is certain of his own limits is a man who is also certain of everything that falls within them—but this feeling, this lingering tendril of dread in his head and stomach, seeps through his veins and makes him almost dizzy with fear. It’s irrational, but irrational thoughts can stem from slivers of truth. And the truth will calm him, one way or another, so he knows he has to get up.

He sits up, slides out of bed, and heads to his door. Before he can reach the handle, it turns on its own and swings open.

“Al-Haitham.”

Kaveh stands before him, eyes wide and also sunken from a distinct and constant lack of sleep. He heaves a sigh of relief. “There you are,” he says softly.