Wrong Address ..

She climbed the stairs with heavy steps, as if the weight of the world rested on her shoulders. Each step
seemed to tear away a piece of her soul. When she reached her apartment door, a cardboard box sat quietly
in front of it.
But it wasn’t just any box She recognized it.
She knew where it came from. And she feared what it might hold, her heartbeat quickened.
She rushed to it and found a small envelope placed gently on top. Holding the box close to her chest, she
unlocked the door with trembling hands.
She stepped inside, closed the door behind her, and leaned against the wall—
as if she feared she might collapse standing.
She let her abaya fall to the floor, knelt on the ground, and opened the envelope with unsteady fingers.
She read:
“I gathered a few of your things… I thought you might need them one day.
Life is a matter of fate and timing, and it seems it wasn’t written for us to walk the rest of the road together.”
The message wasn’t cruel. It was calm – calm enough to shatter her.
She opened the box. Inside:
An old leather journal.
A fountain pen he used to love.
A silver box worn by time.
A chessboard.
An antique trinket.
A large seashell…
She pulled each item out as though removing fragments of her own heart.
And when the box was empty,
she turned it over in her hands,
as if searching its corners
for what hadn’t been sent—
for what could never fit inside a cardboard box.
She took out her phone.
Found his name.
And typed: “I received the box.
But there are things you forgot to return.”
A question mark appeared.
She hesitated… then wrote: Those nights we sat by the window, watching the stars,
your fingers wrapped around mine as you softly sang Kadim Al Sahir… return them to me.
**Those evenings I counted down every second of your absence,
waiting for you with the ache of a child longing for a bedtime story… return them to me.
The prayers I whispered for you—before my father, before my mother—
that God would keep you safe for me… return them to me.
The basil I planted for you in the corner of the balcony,
and the vines I sketched along your wooden chair… return them to me.
On every Eid, I dyed my hands with henna—
only because it reminded you of your mother,
even though I hated its scent… return those Eids to me.
And before all of that— return the ten years I spent with you,

under one roof,
with one heart.**
Then she sent a second message:
“None of what you returned belongs to me.They were all gifts I gave you— back when my name was written
beneath yours.”
She didn’t wait for a reply.
Before he could catch his breath,she blocked his number. She closed the contact,
as if closing a book whose final page had just been read. And just as she was about to put her phone down
— a new number appeared on the screen.
Her heart skipped. Had he called from another line?
Was the silence too heavy for him to bear?
She answered, voice shaking:
– Hello?
– Hello, this is the delivery driver. I’m outside your home.
– Which home?
– House number 66.
Silence.
A deep, hollow silence—
as if something inside her cracked wide open.
Then she replied:
– I’m sorry…
You were given the wrong address.
– Pardon?
– The address was wrong from the very beginning.
I just didn’t notice until now.