Chapter 19 · Untitled Chapter

The knock against the heavy cedar of the inner vestibule did not carry the frantic rattle of my uncle’s knuckles. It was measured, dull, and struck twice with the deliberate weight of brass against polished timber.

Bandar did not flinch. His fingers remained still where they rested against the dark grain of the console, his posture as upright and motionless as the stone pillars flanking the courtyard archway. The faint scent of smoked Taif rose and seasoned leather clung to the air between us, untouched by the cold current seeping beneath the threshold.

Bandar stepped forward without haste. His voice did not rise; it had that flat, granite clarity that made men outside lower their pitch. He slid the upper iron bolt back with a smooth, oiled rasp, opening the leaf just three inches—wide enough for the light from the outer gallery to cut a sharp, pale stripe across the Persian runner.

Beyond that gap stood not my uncle, but Mansoor Al-Husseini, a man whose ledger work bound half the older merchants of the northern district to the municipal registries.