Vision in Red by Sajjad Rasool - HTML preview

Children of Olive

"We didn't imagine it," Amal said. She pointed to the dashboard.

The iron key was glowing. Not red hot, but a dull, steady phosphorescence. And the napkin with their names written in red ink?

It was singed at the edges.

"They don't like the written word," Amal whispered. "Huda was right. It's their poison."

She looked at the road ahead. The lights of Jerusalem glowed on the horizon, a cluster of gold on the black hills.

"We're going to the Archive," Amal said. "And we're going to burn them down."

Part V: The Mirror in the Hallway

The house was quiet. Too quiet.

Usually, there was a hum to the apartment—the refrigerator cycling, the distant traffic from the highway, the rhythmic breathing of the building itself as pipes expanded and contracted.

But tonight, the silence was absolute. It was heavy, like a blanket soaked in water.

Amal locked the front door. Then she checked it again. Then she slid the deadbolt. Then she leaned her forehead against the cool metal, trying to slow her heart rate.

"We are written," she whispered to herself. "We are recorded."

She walked into the living room. Fadi was asleep on the sofa, a medical journal open on his chest. His breathing was shallow, uneven.

Amal stood over him for a moment, watching the rise and fall of his chest. She had an urge to wake him. To shake him and scream, They are coming. They are eating the world.

But what could he do? He was a doctor. He believed in viruses and broken bones. He didn't believe in shadow-eaters.

She walked past him, her socks silent on the tiles.

In the hallway, she stopped.

The decorative mirror—the one with the mosaic frame she had bought in Hebron—was hanging there.

Cover your mirrors, Huda had said. The Watchers eat reflections.

Amal reached for the scarf on the coat rack. She lifted it, intending to drape it over the glass.

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