The morning light barely broke through the dusty windows as Ayman stepped out into the streets again. His feet ached from the day before, but his spirit ached even more. Still, he had to try—his family was depending on him. The streets were just waking up, vendors setting up their stalls, workers rushing to their jobs, and students with backpacks heading to school. Ayman watched them, his heart heavy with envy and bitterness.
He approached another factory, this time prepared with more determination than the day before. But the result was the same.
"Do you have experience?" the foreman asked, barely looking at him.
"No, but I can—"
"We need people who know what they're doing. Sorry."
Each rejection chipped away at him. He walked the streets aimlessly, glancing into cafes, shops, and workshops, but the pattern repeated. Some employers turned him away because he lacked qualifications, while others openly sneered at him, their disdain palpable.
"You're from Ettdhamen, aren't you?" one man said at a mechanic shop.
"Yes, but—"
"We don't need troublemakers here. Get lost."
The words stung, but they were nothing compared to the growing sense of despair. Ayman felt as if the world itself was pushing him down, keeping him in his place.
He stopped at a park bench and slumped down, watching students walk by in clean uniforms, chatting and laughing. He thought of Karim, of how his brother had always seemed so capable, so confident. The comparison was unbearable.
Tears welled in his eyes as he whispered, "This is the real world. This is what I've been hiding from."
The weight of reality hit him like a sledgehammer. He had lived his whole life sheltered by his brother's and mother's efforts, ignoring the struggles they must have endured. Now that it was his turn to shoulder the burden, he felt utterly inadequate.
As he walked back home, his steps dragging, a thought struck him. He remembered the man who had approached him days ago—Mourad. The man had given him money and said he could help him find work.
"Maybe this is my only chance," Ayman thought, a spark of hope flickering.
When he got home, he took out the bundle of money Mourad had given him and placed it on the table. His mother and Marwa were in the kitchen, and he called out to them.
"Here," he said, pushing the money toward them. "I didn't find a job, but I'm still trying. A man named Mourad gave me this money. He said he knew Karim and that he could help me find work. I'm going to call him."
The reaction was immediate and explosive.
"What?! That is a lot of money there." Marwa snapped, her face pale with shock. "A man gave you money? What kind of man gives money for nothing? Is this Farid's doing again?"
"No! It wasn't Farid," Ayman insisted, his voice desperate.
His mother's voice cut through, sharp and angry. "Ayman, where did you really get this money? Don't lie to me! Did you steal it? Did you sell drugs? Did you sell something of ours?"
"No, Mama, I swear—"
"Who is this Mourad?" Marwa interrupted. "I've never heard Karim mention anyone by that name. Are you lying to us?"
Ayman's chest tightened as their accusations poured over him. "I'm not lying! He said he knew Karim!"
"Karim never mentioned anyone like that!" Marwa shouted, her voice cracking.
"I'm telling you the truth!" Ayman cried, his voice breaking.
But neither of them believed him. His mother shook her head, tears in her eyes, while Marwa's anger simmered. Then his mother orders him to give back the money to Mourad and go again to find a job.
Feeling defeated, Ayman grabbed the money and stormed out of the house. His heart felt like it was breaking. He had tried to help, to provide, but no one trusted him.
Outside, he pulled out his phone and dialed Mourad's number. It rang and rang, but there was no answer. He tried again and again, but each attempt ended in silence.
"Of course," Ayman muttered bitterly, his hope slipping away.
He pocketed the phone and trudged back into the streets, his resolve hardened despite his despair. If Mourad wouldn't answer, then he would continue his search for work, no matter how many times the world told him he wasn't good enough.
Ayman stepped out of the house, the weight of his failure still heavy on his shoulders, though the promise of something better kept him walking with a slight sense of hope. His phone buzzed in his pocket, pulling him from his thoughts. He fished it out, seeing his mother's name flash on the screen.
He answered, his voice quiet but eager. "Yes, Mom?"
"Ayman," her voice was tight, urgent. "Just go to Ammar. Your brother knew this man, and he'll help you get a job at the construction site near the school. Go there and ask about him. Please, return the money to that mysterious Mourad, and never talk to strangers like him again."
Ayman stopped in his tracks, his heart skipping a beat. The mention of his brother, Karim, brought a heavy lump to his throat. "But... he got a job for me too, Mom."
There was a long pause on the other end, and for a moment, Ayman thought she might hang up. When she finally spoke, her tone was cautious, filled with worry. "But what is this job, son? How could someone give you that amount of money for nothing in return? He might be dangerous. Please, be careful."
Ayman felt a pang of frustration, his hands tightening around the phone. "Don't worry, Mom," he said, though his words were more for his own reassurance than hers. "I'll be fine." He hung up quickly, not wanting to hear any more of her concerns.
He stared at the phone in his hand, feeling a strange mix of guilt and determination. His mother's voice echoed in his mind, but the call to action was too strong. He tried to dial Mourad's number, but the phone rang endlessly, with no response. Ayman cursed softly under his breath, shoving the phone back into his pocket.
He didn't have time to waste. He had to do something.
The construction site was not far, just a few blocks away, so he set off toward it with resolve. When he arrived, the sight before him wasn't what he expected. Two men, leaning against the entrance gate, were lazily sipping tea and puffing smoke from their cigarettes. They looked up as he approached, their eyes scanning him quickly before turning away, uninterested.
Ayman hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to approach them. His thoughts raced, but he pushed them aside. He had come this far, and he wasn't turning back now.
"Hey," he called out, his voice louder than he meant it to be. "I need to see Mister Ammar."
The two men exchanged glances before one of them spoke, his voice laced with disdain. "Who are you?"
The other man, puffing on his cigarette, flicked it aside and asked, "Why do you want him?"
Ayman clenched his fists, trying to keep his frustration in check. "I need a job," he said, his tone steady but desperate.
Both men ignored him at first, dismissing his plea without a second thought. The one who had asked earlier waved him off. "No job here. Keep walking, kid."
Ayman's patience snapped, the anger rising in him, the frustration boiling over. "Just let me talk to Ammar," he insisted, his voice cutting through the calm of the day.
The two men exchanged another look, this time a little more wary. One of them, a bit taller with a rougher appearance, sneered. "Who sent you here? How do you know Mister Ammar?"
Ayman's heart skipped the name of his brother weighing heavily in his chest. "My brother knew him," he said, the words coming out in a rush. "Karim. The policeman who died a few days ago." His voice trembled slightly as he spoke, but he pushed through. "He told me to come here."
Suddenly, their demeanor shifted. The taller man's eyes widened in recognition. "Oh, Karim? The policeman? Yeah, of course, we know him. He helped us out a while ago, got that thief who was stealing our construction equipment." His voice softened, a tone of respect now creeping into his words. "I'm sorry for your loss, man."
The other man nodded solemnly, his expression softening as well. "Yeah, sorry about your brother."
Ayman stood in stunned silence for a moment, the sudden change in their attitude catching him off guard. These were the same men who had brushed him off only seconds ago, now offering him condolences for his brother's death. The hypocrisy stung, but he didn't show it.
"Alright," the taller man said, tossing his cigarette to the ground. "I'm going to call Mister Ammar. He'll want to meet you. Wait here."
Without waiting for Ayman to respond, he turned and walked into the site, disappearing beyond the gate. The second man, a shorter, stockier figure, stepped forward with a small smile. "I'll bring you some tea while you wait."
Ayman watched as the man disappeared into the small makeshift kitchen area behind the site. He stood there, his mind racing, and bitterness began to churn in his gut.
"They're only helping me because of my brother," Ayman muttered under his breath, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "Fuck them."
As he turned to pace in frustration, his phone rang again. This time, the screen showed Mourad's name. Ayman's stomach twisted. He had almost forgotten about the man, and the sudden urgency in his voice made his skin prickle.
He glanced back at the construction site, the two men still inside, busy with their tasks. Ayman didn't wait to hear anymore. He quickly answered the call, his voice tight with impatience. "Mourad?"
"Come to the cemetery," Mourad said, his tone flat, almost businesslike. "I'll meet you there."
Before Ayman could ask anything more, the call ended abruptly.
Without a second thought, he turned away from the construction site, feeling a rush of anger and confusion as he walked off. The weight of everything he had just experienced, the sudden change in the men's behavior, and the mysterious call from Mourad all seemed to crash down on him at once. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was walking deeper into something dangerous. But for now, he had no choice but to follow the path.
As he neared the cemetery, the bright sunlight contrasted with the heavyweight in his chest. The place was peaceful, a stark contrast to the chaos brewing in his mind. He tried to steady his breathing, telling himself to focus. It wasn't just the job he was about to learn about, it was the man himself. What did Mourad really want from him?
The more Ayman walked, the more he realized that he didn't really know this man at all. Mourad had shown up in his life unexpectedly, offering help without asking for much in return—something Ayman couldn't fathom. What kind of person does that? What was his true motive?
His mother's voice was still fresh in his ears. "Please, be careful. Don't get involved with people like him." Her concern weighed on him, but at the same time, Ayman knew he couldn't back out now. He had no other choice. If this man could offer him a way out, then he had to face whatever it was he was offering.
With each step closer to the cemetery gates, the uncertainty built up. This wasn't just about finding a job anymore; this was about understanding who Mourad really was and why he had chosen Ayman to help. Ayman needed to know exactly what kind of job he was being offered—and whether the price of that job would be worth it.
All he could do was walk forward, hoping that the answers would finally come when he met Mourad. The questions wouldn't stop until then.