In some homes, Ramadan arrives quietly, knocking on doors silently, carrying with it memories more than celebrations, and it sits in an empty chair reminding its owner of those who are absent. However, despite the silence of the house and the absence of voices, it remains a month of blessing and forgiveness, making its way to the heart, touching the soul, and leaving its mark in small moments... even if that mark is heavy and painful.
In Ameen’s house, Ramadan is no longer just a joy made of laughter but a reminder of absolute absence and the reality that sometimes love has no future. Ameen was not just pained by the sudden absence, but by the fact that the absence had become permanent, a silent law that cannot be changed. The silence of pain is heavier than any scream, and the house is silent like old furniture, like a picture on the wall that no one knows who placed there.
Five days before Ramadan, he sat near the window. The cold dawn breeze entered, carrying the scent of earth after rain and the aroma of Arabic coffee. It was a day announcing life, and today announcing absence, but it did not prevent Ramadan from being present, touching his heart... yet leaving it burdened with memories no longer present in reality.
He closed his eyes and remembered Layan, Sundus, Amal, and Suhail. He saw Layan moving between rooms with a smile of the past, Sundus adding her subtle touches, Amal imitating her sisters, and Suhail always asking him about the هلال. He slowly opened his eyes. The room is silent. The old chair is silent. Mercy has no voice in silence.
Four souls once filled his life with warmth. Today, after more than twenty years, only emptiness remains. The divorce was not just an end of a relationship, but the beginning of a daily death of everything beautiful in the house. He lost not only his wife but also his children. All the love, care, and expenses didn't prevent them from raising a barrier of rejection and coldness against him. He became a father without a voice, without steps, without anyone to call him, without any chance to feel the warmth of the past ever again.
Ameen rose towards the kitchen, his steps as heavy as the hearts of those who are gone. He opened the cabinet, took out five cups, placed them on the table, and stared at them for a long time. He reached for the first cup, but suddenly withdrew and pushed the cup away. Silence became clearer than any word.
He cautiously picked up the fifth cup, it slipped between his fingers, the coffee collided with the plate. The cup became silent, but the weight of absence became palpable like iron on his heart. He sat near the window, looking at the chair opposite, as if waiting itself had become a form of love... a forever wounded love.
The past flowed through his mind nonstop: Layan's first joy, making coffee in the early morning, placing a piece of biscuit on the plate: "Take this, you crown of my head, to make the start of your day sweeter." Daddy's darling Amal imitating her sisters and laughing with a voice that filled the house with light. And Sundus, his shining star, would add her small touches unnoticed by anyone. Then Suhail, his pride and support, asking him: "Father, will you see the هلال tonight?"
But today, all these pictures have become silent. Love exists, but it has no future, no presence, no hope. The fifth cup is a witness to all that has passed, and all that will never return. Ameen touches it cautiously, as if trying to grasp what he has lost, but he knows the loss has become permanent.
On the first day of Ramadan, he prepared his meal as usual. He placed the dates on the table, poured the water, sat waiting for the call to prayer. And when the call rose, he raised a date with his hand, but he didn't eat it immediately. It remained suspended between his hand and his mouth, as if he was waiting for something that would never come. The taste was no longer the same. The reason was not the date, but the eternal absence of those who gave it meaning.
Days passed, each day resembling the other, but he added small touches that brought life back to the silent house: he arranged the decorations, lit the candles, placed the fruits on the table as Layan used to do with a hidden smile known only to his heart.
At night, he stood at his window. The city was lit, the minarets raising their voices, and his house drowned in a silence he knew well. He raised his hands in prayer: he did not ask for their return, he did not inquire about the reason for their distance, he prayed for their well-being... as he always did, though he knew that these prayers would not change anything.
And in his heart, the fifth cup remained silent... carrying everything that was, and everything that will never be again. Love exists, yes, but it is a love without meeting, a love without hope, a love wounded by the weight of emptiness.
And every morning, as the dawn breeze slips through his window, his memory quickly returns to Layan, Sundus, Amal, and Suhail... As for them, they have erased the path to his life as the wind erases its trace on the sands. Ameen remains alone: his abandoned chair, his cold fifth cup, and his memories that slip through his fingers like ash... whispering to him that some love is an unforgivable curse, and that emptiness has become his only presence, noisy with its weight, sincere with its desolation, carrying every heartache that time has not healed, and every scream that was not heard.
The fifth cup remained silent, cold, as if it were a small grave on the table, witnessing the death of everything Ameen loved. Its silence is harsher than any crying, and the house has become empty, like a body without a soul, and the sounds of their laughter lost in its corridors as the wind fades between the rocks. The dawn breeze passes, carrying only dead memories, and the bright city outside seems like a life that belongs to others only. Ameen sits, staring into the void, knowing that time no longer heals anything, and that the love that remained is nothing but ash on a broken heart. Here, in the cold silence of the night, dreaming becomes an impossible crime, and nostalgia a heavy burden unbearable, and all that remains for him is a fifth cup no one drinks from... and the silent voice of his heart whispering that life without them has become a prison without doors, and hope died before Ramadan left him alone, surrounded by a small death that accompanies him every new day.
