I do not know who these letters will ever reach. Perhaps they will find space in my trash bin, or be buried beneath the soil, or meet the same fate as my cigarettes—burning my chest without mercy. My hands have longed to write, if only to ease the weight pressing on my heart.
1920… the heart of winter. I sit alone before my broken mirror, as I always do, rambling to my worn-out notebooks. I used to love writing—documenting daily thoughts… or perhaps I once did.
It has only been five months since I have been here—or rather, since I regained consciousness. I remember nothing at all. Khurshid told me he is my husband, and that I was in a terrible car accident, one that left me in a long coma and nearly cost him all hope of my return.
I have fought with everything in me to recall anything—anything that might lead me back to my former life. But every journey into my mind ends the same: empty-handed.
I suppose I should speak of Khurshid and his family. I feel his love in the way his gaze follows my shadow wherever I go, as if he fears losing me again after that accident. He often speaks of how deeply I once loved him. I feel nothing toward him now.
He told me I was a talented writer, though none of my work was ever published. According to him, what made me happiest was writing down my thoughts. So he brought me everything I might need and promised—firmly—that whatever I write, no one will ever read.
I am afraid to admit to him how empty I feel toward him. Instead, I simply stare at him blankly whenever he asks: "Does your heart feel me again, Asia?"
Silence, Khurshid—silence has always been my answer since the moment I opened my eyes to find you beside me. Forced to deal with you as though you were a past I cannot remember, known to me only through your endless stories.
As for his mother, Lady Nazli—she is strange. Her gaze is sharp and fixed, her voice cold, as though it rises from some deep, hollow place. Her footsteps are calculated, unnervingly precise. She treats me harshly and seems to resent her son whenever his love for me shows. I never cared for that love to begin with. I wish she understood that and left me alone. Something inside me insists that her son—and his love—are foreign to me, no matter how hard I try to accept them.
And then there is his widowed aunt, Fakriya. She is a story of her own—one no less terrifying. She always wears dark brown lipstick and heavy black kohl, the deep lines of age etched harshly across her face. Together, they give her a commanding, dreadful presence. Like the others, she is cold—never smiling, always dressed in black, as if the color itself was made for her. She appears suddenly and disappears just as suddenly… as though I am somehow incomplete without her.
His older sister, Shams, has passed forty without ever marrying. Her constant scowl has carved deep lines into her forehead. Her hands are rough, repelling. Her breath is unbearable, and the way she eats is enough to turn one's stomach.
None of that is particularly strange.
What follows, however, is strangeness itself.
When I first regained consciousness, my eyes wandered in confusion. The room—its four walls painted entirely black. A foul stench forced its way into my nose so violently that I vomited. I tried to rise, but the tubes in my veins restrained me. I pulled them out gently, stumbling as dizziness overtook me, yet I resisted. I wanted to escape that cursed room—anywhere would be better than such a place. What kind of room is painted like that? Even the furniture was grotesque.
One wall held a statue of some horned creature I could not identify. I screamed when I realized it was staring at me—an unsettling, piercing gaze. I fainted.
When I woke again, I found myself surrounded—Khurshid, his mother, his aunt, his sister, and the old maid—standing in a half-circle around my bed, all dressed in black. The sight was horrifying. A violent fit seized me. Khurshid tried to calm me, but I pushed him away. He came closer—I pushed him again. Yet he kept approaching with a strange patience.
He injected me with something, and I sank into deep sleep.
Day after day, he persisted until I finally accepted his story—of a past filled with love and happiness.
I tried many times to leave the mansion, but it is surrounded by a desolate forest I cannot cross alone. Whenever I told Khurshid I wanted to leave, he would calmly repeat that we had never left the mansion since moving there.
My God… I feel I am losing my mind. So many missing pieces. I understand so little. I find myself forced to accept whatever Khurshid tells me. Any attempt to remember brings unbearable pain to my head, so I retreat. In the end, I have no choice but to believe him.
I adapted to this new life—the only one I have now. As my health improved, I was no longer confined to bed. The balcony overlooked the back garden, where I noticed a man who appeared to be the gardener. Broad-shouldered, heavily built, he never spoke—never made a sound. When spoken to, he would simply nod.
I watched him from my balcony. He became my only source of distraction in that dreadful place.
One night, as I sat watching him in the darkness, I saw him kill someone—sever his head from his body.
I screamed hysterically until my voice broke. I ran downstairs at terrifying speed to tell anyone—anyone at all—but the mansion was empty. Completely empty. As though everyone had vanished.
Like a madwoman, I cried: "The gardener is a murderer! Someone come with me! Khurshid, where are you?!"
Only my echo answered.
Where had they all gone? How could they leave me so easily?
I decided to confront him myself—whatever happens, happens. I did not even consider that I might share the victim's fate. I am reckless… I admit that.
As I ran, I collided with Maria, the maid. It felt like hitting a wall. Her features were terrifying—her nun-like attire, her sharp, owl-like eyes, the large cross hanging from her neck, her permanently pursed lips.
Swallowing my fear, I told her what I had seen, stumbling over my words. She seemed to understand in the end and said in her cold, marble-like voice: "Do not move from here. I will inform Lady Nazli."
She vanished for a few minutes, then reappeared with Lady Nazli—as if summoned by something unseen. As they approached, my heart pounded harder, my knees trembling. I nearly lost control of myself in shameful fear.
With her cold, deep voice, Lady Nazli asked what had happened. I repeated everything. She ordered me to come with them to the garden to verify my claim.
I stood behind them, trembling, watching the man.
He was working normally.
No body. No blood. No sign of anything.
No… impossible. I saw it. I am certain. I am not mistaken.
Rage consumed me. I screamed hysterically: "Believe me! I am absolutely certain! That man is a murderer—he slaughtered someone, tore his head from his body with brutal cruelty!"
Their eyes were cold—deadly, like moving glaciers. They watched me as I broke down in terror. Then I saw Khurshid running toward me. He tried to touch me, to calm me, but I was beyond reason.
The maid said coldly: "Even if we believed you… do you think he could clean everything so perfectly in this time?"
My screams filled the air.
I do not like ambiguity. I am not delusional. I am fine.
Khurshid restrained me with the man's help. He injected me again, and I fell into another deep, unknown sleep.
After that, I watched the gardener day and night. Everything about him was normal.
Am I truly losing my mind? Were they right all along?
At this very moment, I feel blind of heart—and one who is blind of heart cannot see, even if they possess the strongest eyes in the world.