Telegram
Short story
The telegram arrived late, not just late for its scheduled time, but too late. Had it arrived three years earlier, the course of the story and the event would have changed, and perhaps there would have been no reason for the story at all. Six words were enough to prevent an event that occurred, the effects of which will remain until the end of humanity, and extend to infinity in the afterlife we believe in.
The image is AI-generated
Souad waited for him for fifteen years: seven hundred and eighty weeks, five thousand four hundred and fifty days, one hundred and thirty-one thousand and four hundred hours. She did not wait for him eagerly throughout all these years; the eagerness and longing were in the first five years, then turned into a moral commitment for another five years. She was waiting for her cousin who traveled to Australia to secure his future, but his news was cut off six months after his departure. In the last five years, she pretended to wait for him, and felt that the age gap was shrinking more and more.
The image is AI-generated
Souad didn't calculate as I wrote, but I was the one calculating for her, watching the moment she stopped thinking about him every day we met at work. He was the common thread in our conversations, so I got to know him through her, and I saw him once before he traveled, even though I had memorized all his actions, problems, and dreams. I read the text of the telegram again... it wasn't a telegram, but a letter sent by mail, in a time when emails replaced telegrams and letters. Yet, it was very brief, like a telegram in the guise of a letter:
(Souad, I just left, I'm coming).
This is the text, without greetings or regards or longings, but every letter in it exudes longing, eagerness, and haste.
The postmark surprised me; it wasn't from Australia, nor from a Western country, but from Bahrain. I wonder, what turned him to Bahrain? And when did he get there? The postman, who handed me the letter as Souad's husband, asked me curiously about his degree of kinship to me, so I said he was Souad's relative. He hesitated to give me the letter at first, but when he confirmed that I was her husband - through my new colleague at work after Souad resigned - he gave it to me, waiting for a reward for his trouble, which I did not disappoint him with.
The image is AI-generated
Souad was surprised by my appearance and demeanor when I entered the house, as if I were carrying a burden beyond my capacity. She whispered in our young child's ear not to disturb his father coming home tired from work, so the little one retreated and busied himself with one of his toys.
"You have a letter."
With feminine curiosity, she asked me:
"A letter?"
With the jealousy of an Eastern man, I refrained from mentioning his name, but I handed her the letter.
She took it, and I saw in her eyes his image the day he came to our company and we met him. She was infatuated with his love, seeing no one else. I followed her eyes as they quickly scanned the lines, then she threw the letter away and looked at our child, then rose to hug him. The letter remained on the sofa, looking at me, as if asking me for something that concerned it.