Bolot Begaliev
Efendi IV: Radiance of the Heart

Chapter One. Manhattan Between the Lines

Efendi stood at the window on the twenty-eighth floor of a business hotel on Fifth Avenue. Below him the city roared—horns, rushing crowds, screens flashing light. Behind his back a forum on green energy was in full swing, all charts and projections, but his thoughts wandered far beyond statistics.

She appeared like a bright line in a dull report: Mary Joan, a blonde with freckles, a sly half-smile, and a heavy medical dissertation on the impact of stress on the human mind.

“You’re pretending to care about all this too?” she whispered at the coffee stand.

“I’m here to talk about hydroelectric power. And you?”

“To drink free coffee and remind myself why I chose a topic that puts me to sleep.”

They laughed.

Later they walked: Central Park dusted with snow, yellow cabs streaking past, skyscraper glass mirroring their shadows. Efendi told her about Alai, about a stubborn donkey, about cryptocurrency, and the time his cat dragged his recovery phrase into the sofa cushions. Mary laughed so hard she had to stop under a lamppost, holding her stomach.

“You are the strangest person I’ve ever met. Philosophy of the steppe mixed with Uber-driver jokes. Unexpected. And refreshing.”

Stories spilled out one after another: about Columbus and the Native who first asked, “America, is it?”; about travelers forced to choose between death and a mysterious “kakatumba”; about a nightclub in a dog’s fur, where lice held raves and fought battles—“armpit against backside.”

Mary laughed until tears blurred her eyes.

“Wait—lice in a nightclub… on a dog’s head?! That’s brilliant. I’m telling my students. The backside louse is the perfect symbol of inner conflict.”

“And what about ‘death, but only after the kakatumba’? Did you like that one?” Efendi asked.

“I howled! You’re not just a romantic—you’re walking stand-up with a poet’s eyes.”

He shrugged, embarrassed.

“In Alai we say: if you’ve made a woman laugh, she’ll either marry you or make you soup. Either way—you win.”

Mary leaned across the table.

“And what if she laughs and then thinks about you at night?”

“Then it doesn’t matter how many men she’s known. The jokes will belong only to one.”

That evening they walked through Brooklyn. At her doorway Mary smiled.

“If a man makes me laugh three times in one night, he deserves a cup of coffee. Mine’s good—cinnamon. And no kakatumba.”

“And if I laugh a fourth time?”

“Then it’s your fault if you end up staying till morning.”

It was simple—just coffee. Her apartment was warm and unpretentious: light-gray walls, wooden floor, shelves of books, posters, one reading Be kind. It’s gangster. The kitchen smelled of cinnamon.

“Shoes off. And don’t ask why my slippers look like moose.”

They sat with steaming mugs a soft rap beat in the background. Efendi said,

“In Alai we have rap too—only with a komuz.”

She pulled Matilda by Roald Dahl from a shelf.

“The first book that told me I wasn’t the only strange one.”

“That’s not just about a girl. It’s about strength when you’re underestimated.”

“Exactly.”

They fell quiet. Outside, amid New York’s blaze, it felt as if the two of them had found a small island without noise.

And yet he was not like the others. At the door, holding his coat, Efendi said,

“Thank you for tonight, Mary. It wasn’t ordinary.”

“With you, nothing comes out ordinary—it just feels natural.”

“I’d stay,” he admitted, “but I don’t want to ruin what’s just beginning.”

She stepped closer, touched his collar. He kissed her—calmly, without urgency. As if to say: I’m here. I’m near. I’m real.

Later Mary sat with a book in her hands but didn’t read. She smiled.

“He didn’t even stay… and why does that feel warmer than if he had? He’s like the pause between notes. In that silence, I hear myself.”

Coat over the shoulders, and suddenly the city no longer felt foreign. Autumn. Manhattan. Rain. Mary was drenched in her thin coat. No taxi in sight. Out of an alley, Efendi appeared. He draped a poncho with an ethnic pattern over her shoulders.

“I only have one,” she said.

“I still have my heart. It warms better.”

On the subway she leaned against him.

“You probably don’t realize what you did. But I do. You made New York feel like home.”

When he was simply there, everything shifted. Mary didn’t write to anyone. Her mother was unwell, the apartment filled with cereal flakes, an old sweater, silence. Then the doorbell rang. Efendi stood there with a pot of lavender.

“I didn’t know what you needed. But this thing smells like calm.”

He set the kettle on, brought out honey from Alai. Mary looked at him—and suddenly tears ran down her cheeks.

“No one has ever made me feel so safe in my silence.”

He simply embraced her. And in that hush, scented with lavender and honey, she understood for the first time: with him she could be fragile, and that fragility only made her more real.

Skiing. The Swiss Alps. She shouted,

“I’m from Texas—I wasn’t born for snow!”

“And I’m from Alai. Yet here we are, flying down a mountain. That means anything is possible!”

Laughter, a fireplace, tea with honey. She entered the room like a beam of light—quiet, but warm. Her hair spilled like threads of morning gold, her eyes were an invitation to look deeper, her sweater a kind of fabric-shaped calm. She carried no rush within her. Even in silence she remained a whole universe.

He stepped out of the shower, drops of water sliding off his shoulders. The room smelled of her warmth, of breath, of waiting. She sat on the edge of the bed, knees drawn to her chest, her gaze holding something stronger than words—the simple desire to be near.

The lamp’s thin glow painted her skin as if drawing her anew. She did not hide. She was open in her tender fragility. When he came closer, their eyes met, and in the silence spoke everything: trust, longing, promise.

She reached out, touched him lightly, as if afraid to break the moment. Her fingers brushed his cheek, paused at his lips. He bent down, and the kiss came as a natural continuation of her touch.

The world seemed to dissolve. Only the two of them remained—their breath, their racing hearts, and a tenderness more truthful than any vow.

Their kisses grew deeper, stronger, as if every passing minute pulled them toward the inevitable center of connection. He held her close, so close no air remained between them, and this force did not crush but sharpened the sweetness.

Her body responded to his—sometimes trembling, sometimes reaching for him—and together they discovered a new rhythm, where there was no longer “he” and “she,” only a shared pulse.

Breath turned heavy, broken. Their whispers blurred into sounds that felt like confessions. In their embrace mingled gentleness and hunger, softness and urgency. Their bodies seemed to understand each other without misstep—like two halves of a single melody. And when the wave overtook them both, it felt like release—joy born not only of bodies but of hearts, where love and passion became one.

Efendi, softly, stroking her hair:

“You don’t know how beautiful you are right now. Your eyes shine as if two stars were lit inside them.”

She, smiling, hiding her face in his shoulder:

“I need to hear that… say more.”

Efendi, kissing her temple:

“Your skin is morning light—soft and warm. I can’t breathe enough of you. Your breath is still near me, and it’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever known.”

She whispered, “I was afraid I wouldn’t be special to you.”

Efendi, looking into her eyes:

“You’re not just special. You’re like a melody I searched for my whole life and finally heard. You hold tenderness and strength together—and I want you to know: I’m proud of you.”

She pressed closer.

“You speak in a way that melts me.”

Efendi, smiling:

“Because I speak the truth. You are my joy, my muse, my gentleness. If words could paint, I would write your name across every sky I’ve ever seen.”

Second breath. She, still warm from the closeness, stirred awake again. In her eyes glimmered that playful spark—when tenderness turns into resolve. She drew him to her, wrapped her arms around him, pulled so close no distance remained. Her breath quickened. Words lost their weight. Only touch remained.

She searched for his lips, his neck, his shoulder, discovering him anew—bold, free, radiant with joy. He closed his eyes, surrendering to her lead.

Their chemistry flared again, as if biology itself had found a new language to declare love. Each kiss was a note, each caress an accord. He answered with a sound that carried more truth than a hundred words.

The second act began not with movement, but with her laughter—soft, genuine, filled with delight at being both tender and daring. And then their bodies found rhythm once more. Tightening. Quickening. Joy. All of it—like music, where they were both composers and listeners.

They sat afterward, arms around each other, still captive to the afterglow. Their breathing fell into a shared rhythm. Silence filled with the whisper of skin against skin.

She rose lightly, like a stream of light, and slipped into the shower. He watched her, unable to look away: water flowing down her pale skin, almost marble, her youth, her softness like silk. She shone with joy, even the drops on her shoulders gleamed as if reflecting her inner laughter. Her eyes smiled, saying without words: I’m here. I’m yours.

What a tender creature—Mary. In her fragility lived strength; in her chest burned a rose of flame, unfolding in love’s passion.

He felt like a witness to a miracle—the union of water, light, and body. And in this miracle was everything: biology, chemistry, and the poetry of life.

She stood under the water heat washed away, but not the fire within. Mary thought of him—of his hands, steady and gentle, of his gaze, holding both power and softness. Efendi, her heart whispered, and every beat echoed joy. She adored him like a rare sky after a long night: he was her light, her breath, her meaning. She wanted to love him without reserve, to give everything she had. She felt ready for anything with him—through hardship or happiness—as long as he was near.

In her chest lived a silence filled with one desire: for his happiness, for his days to be clear, for fate to guard him from harm. She longed to be his peace and his passion, his quiet shore and his fire. Everything in her body, her soul, her smile reached for him, like a flower toward the sun.

She stepped out of the shower—drops still gleaming on her skin like morning dew on a petal. Efendi sat watching her as though witnessing the first sunrise of his life.

She came closer, touched his face with her palm, traced his cheek slowly.

“You look at me as if…” her voice trembled, “…as if I were the most beautiful woman on earth.”

He smiled, drew her in, inhaled the fragrance of her skin.

“Not as if… You are. Everything else fades beside you.”

She laughed softly, lay down beside him, pressed close to his chest. For a few moments they sat in silence, listening to each other’s breath.

“I want to remember every part of you,” she said, her lips brushing his skin like a whisper. “Your hands, your voice… even the way you look at me after. You make me feel desired.”

He slid his fingers through her hair, bent close to her ear.

“You’re more than desired. You are my joy. My breath. My yes to the world.”

She froze, shoulders trembling. She lifted her eyes, tender and aflame.

“Say more…” her voice was soft as silk. “I love when you call me yours.”

Efendi kissed her slowly, as if each touch of his lips was a vow.

“You are my Mary,” he whispered. “My miracle. My morning and my night.”

She smiled, pressed into him, then let her lips wander down his shoulder, along his neck, lingering a little longer on his skin. He closed his eyes, exhaled, and that breath became their shared rhythm.

“I want to spoil you,” she said, kissing him again, deeper, bolder. “Let my body be your shelter. Let my hands know all your hidden roads.”

He answered in a low, slightly husky voice:

– Spoil me… but know that I, too, can’t stop when I feel you near.

And again—their breaths mingled, pauses dissolved, and the world outside the window ceased to exist.

She leaned toward him, and her hair slid softly across his skin, like black silk flowing in the wind. Each of her kisses was not hurried, not reckless passion, but a confession—quiet, tender, like lines of a letter written by the heart.

Efendi felt as if stars were truly falling onto his body—tiny sparks with every touch of hers. Sometimes it was like the delicate flutter of a butterfly’s wings: she touched him so carefully that he held his breath, afraid to disturb this magic.

– Do you feel it?.. – she asked, barely pulling away from his lips, her eyes sparkling with joy.

– Every bit of it, – he whispered, – every breath you take. It passes through me like light.

She smiled and placed her hand on his chest. Beneath her fingers, his heart beat—steady, strong, and yet with a boyish vulnerability. She pressed her ear to him, listening to the rhythm.

– It’s music… – she said. – The most alive, the most real.

His hands stroked her back, and she felt as though she was dissolving—not only in passion, but in trust, in tenderness, in complete surrender to being with him, no matter what path lay ahead.

Their love was like the breath of the sea: a wave of tenderness followed by a wave of fire.

Sometimes she laughed softly when his lips found her most sensitive spots, and her laughter was not just playfulness, but a song of happiness. Sometimes he closed his eyes when she touched him as if she knew him deeper than he knew himself.

Their bodies spoke a language that needed no words.

Every touch was a promise.

Every glance was trust.

Every kiss was “I am with you, forever.”

And in those moments, when they found each other again in this dance of bodies and souls, Mary thought: “I was made to love him. To give him joy, light, and peace. May my fire be his warmth, and my tenderness his harbor.”

And he, feeling her breath on his skin like a warm wind over a field, whispered:

– You are my happiness. You are my star.

And the stars really did seem to fall—but not from the sky, from within themselves. Every feeling ignited sparks, turning their closeness into a miracle.

The night embraced them with soft wings. Outside, distant lights shone, but they were only decoration—the entire real world was concentrated in this breath, in these glances, in this touch.

She leaned toward him again, as if wanting to drink in his warmth. Her lips brushed his skin like delicate dew sliding over a petal. She kissed his shoulders, his chest, as if uncovering an invisible map on his body, where every point held a new meaning of their intimacy.

He responded with hands that knew her curves as well as a musician knows a beloved instrument. Sometimes his fingers paused, lingering as if listening to her breath, then moved again—careful, gentle, yet irresistibly drawn.

– You are so beautiful, – he whispered, looking at her face illuminated by moonlight.

– And I feel alive only with you… – she replied, her voice carrying not only passion but tenderness and trust.

She kissed his lips—sometimes eagerly, sometimes just brushing them, playing with rhythm. He stroked her back, her hips, feeling how her whole body trembled as if invisible butterflies danced beneath her skin.

Their bodies merged as if they were part of a single whole. As if the world had created them to become reflections of each other this night.

Every movement was deliberate, full of meaning: as if they were writing a story—line by line, touch by touch.

Sometimes they froze—looking at each other, listening to their hearts beat in unison. Sometimes laughter burst through the passion, like a pure spring drop amidst fire.

And the longer the night stretched, the more it seemed that the stars had moved into their souls.

They burned—quietly, endlessly, completely.

And when fatigue touched them with gentle fingers, they still did not let go of each other. They lay side by side, intertwined with hands and breath, and the silence between them sounded louder than any words.

– Promise me you’ll always be here, – she said, tracing his cheek with her fingers.

– I won’t promise, – he replied, smiling. – I will simply be.

And the night kept their secret.

A night of love where soul and body were one.

Morning came not with an alarm, but with her breath, light and warm, sliding over his shoulder. She slept, holding him, looking as if the night itself had decided to stay in her lashes, in the soft shadow beneath her eyes.

He rose quietly, ordered breakfast from the restaurant—coffee, buttered toast, fresh berries, omelet, and, of course, a bouquet of roses for Mary. When the courier brought it, he set it on the table by the window, where the morning light shone—and placed the roses in a tall vase to reflect in her hair.

– Good morning, my love, – he said, kissing her temple.

She opened her eyes slightly, and her smile was like a sunbeam breaking through the curtains.

Mary stretched, slipped into a light pale-blue dress that accentuated her slender waist and the line of her collarbones. Her hair fell freely over her shoulders, glowing with soft gold, and her skin gleamed with morning freshness, like rose petals washed with dew. Her long legs looked like an invitation to dance, and he couldn’t help but linger on the sight.

– You look at me as if seeing me for the first time, – she said, laughing.

– Every time, as if the first, – he replied seriously.

She approached, sat on his lap, and let his hands rediscover her. Their lips met—the sweetness of her raspberry-colored lips reminded him of morning berries, but deeper, softer, more intimate.

He felt the scent of her body, morning-warm, like the breath of summer.

– I’m happy you exist, – she said softly.

– And I’m happy that we exist, – he replied.

Again, intimacy touched them, but this time it was soft, slow, like a favorite melody repeated at dawn. Their souls sang together, and their bodies simply followed the rhythm.

Afterward, they ate breakfast in bed: he fed her pieces of toast, she teased him with the aroma of coffee from her lips. Laughter and kisses intertwined with sips of cappuccino.

Later they went for a walk. The air was fresh, the city waking. Mary wore a light dress and a long coat, her hair blowing in the wind. He held her hand tightly, afraid to let go even for a moment.

Their path led them to an ice rink. They laced up their skates—he, careful and attentive, she—like a light bird gliding across the ice.

Laughter, falls, attempts to hold each other—everything seemed like a continuation of their night: not passion, but pure, radiant happiness.

As they twirled, arms entwined, the rink’s music melted into their laughter, and Mary’s eyes shone so brightly that no city lights could compare.

And again, it felt as if love was not only the night, but every morning, every step together, every turn on the ice.

Chapter Two. Evening and Dance

After the rink, they wandered through the city, as if discovering it anew. The stone streets held the echo of their footsteps, shop windows caught their reflections, and every moment felt like a painting.

– I feel like we’re not walking through the city, but through our own dream, – Mary said, pressing close to him.

– Then I never want to wake from it, – he replied.

That evening, he took her to a restaurant with soft lighting and music. On the table: a bottle of red wine, candles, and a white tablecloth, where her hand rested—slender, delicate, with the shimmer of nail polish. He held her fingers almost the entire evening.

Mary had chosen a wine-colored dress—fitted but elegant, with a deep back cut. Her hair was gathered into a high bun, with a few strands falling freely around her face. Her skin glowed softly, and her long legs in delicate heels drew glances across the room. But he saw only her.

When slow music began, he stood and extended his hand.

– Shall we dance?

– With you—always.

They moved to the center of the room. Mary rested her head on his shoulder, and their bodies swayed slowly to the rhythm of the music. But their eyes spoke even more: of trust, of tenderness, of a timelessness that seemed to suspend everything else.

He leaned down and kissed her lips—the sweetness resonating through her entire body, and she smiled, shy but happy.

– You know, you make me more beautiful, – she whispered.

– No, my love. You are beauty itself, and I merely reflect it, – he answered.

After dinner, they stepped into the night streets. The city shimmered with lights, and the air was cool and clean. They walked, arms around each other, unhurried—as if the night itself belonged to them.

At home, they were alone again. On the nightstand, the same morning roses had opened even wider. He took off her coat, slowly unzipped her dress, and it slipped down softly.

– I love you, – she said, touching his face.

– I love you more than words could ever hold, – he replied.

Again, their closeness was different now: deeper, purer, as if it was the continuation of the entire day. They loved not with their bodies, but with their souls, knowing this was how it was meant to be.

The night passed in breaths, kisses, and whispered words. Their souls sang like a morning melody, now in a lower, evening tone.

Morning that smells like you. He woke first. Outside, dawn breathed quietly—the city wrapped in a thin mist, as if the world itself wanted to grant them more privacy. On the pillow beside him, Mary slept, her hair slightly tousled, and he admired it as a musician who hears a melody for the first time.

He rose quietly, ordered breakfast from the restaurant. Twenty minutes later, a waiter entered with a silver tray: freshly brewed coffee, croissants, herb omelet, strawberries, honey, and crisp toast. On the plate, a small dessert bore a chocolate inscription: For Mary.

Next to it, he placed a vase of red roses—their fragrance immediately filling the room.

– Good morning, beautiful, – he whispered, kissing her temple.

Mary opened her eyes sleepily, stretched, and the blanket slipped, revealing her shoulder.

– What morning could be good without you?.. – her voice was soft but sincere.

She got up, slipped into a light silk ivory dress, and her slightly damp hair after the shower shimmered gold in the light. Her skin was like morning porcelain, and her long legs glided across the floor, as if grace itself resided in her.

He poured her coffee, served strawberries, and looking into her eyes, said:

– Your lips are sweeter than this honey.

She smiled, and their kiss turned the morning into a celebration again. Her raspberry lips held the taste of the night, and her body the scent of closeness. He drew her to himself again. Their love sparked anew, gentler than the night before: a tender, warm, almost transparent morning where bodies spoke without haste.

– I want every morning to be with you, – she said, lying on his chest.

– And I want every night to bring us back to what we feel now, – he replied.

They loved each other again—as if the night was only just beginning.

Then came laughter, breakfast, kisses between sips of coffee, playful glances. And a decision:

– Let’s go skate. Let the whole city know we’re happy.

– Let the whole world know.

And they went. He held her hand on the ice; she laughed, slightly losing her balance, but he caught her each time. Their laughter and breaths became one music, and the rink became the stage for their love-filled freedom.

Day and evening, woven from the two of them. The rink left a lightness in their hearts. Mary laughed like a girl, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling—and he thought he had never seen himself happier. They left, hand in hand, stopping along the way at a small café.

On the table before them floated a cup of hot chocolate with cinnamon, two pastries, and a small vase with a violet.

– Did you notice? – he said. – Even the flowers are keeping us company today.

– That’s because we’ve become flowers ourselves, – Mary replied, her smile softer than the sugar on the dessert.

He watched as she lifted the cup to her lips, the warm steam brushing her lashes, and felt that every little detail of her was already poetry. Her fingers brushed his hand, and it felt as if fireflies ran along his skin.

After the café, they wandered the city for a long time. The sun slowly tilted toward the horizon, the air became crisp and clear, and lanterns lit one by one. Their steps fell in rhythm with their hearts. He whispered quiet words to her, almost like incantations:

– Mine, mine, mine…

And she answered as if she knew the language of his soul:

– And I’m yours, forever.

When they returned to the hotel, the night had fully embraced the city. The room was dimly lit, and outside the window, the lights twinkled. He brought out another surprise—champagne and fruit.

– You’re incorrigible, – Mary laughed, but in her voice was so much gratitude that he realized it was exactly these little “silly things” that stayed in memory for a lifetime.

They sat on the windowsill, holding each other, drinking champagne straight from the glasses, looking at the city. Her hair brushed against his face, her breath sweet like wine.

– You know, – she said, – I used to think happiness was something far away. But it turns out—it’s simply… being with you.

He kissed her lips, and they became the flavor of the evening.

And love returned to them again. This time slowly, smoothly, like a second wave softly wrapping around the shore. Their bodies danced to the rhythm set by their hearts. It was not the passion of the night or the playfulness of morning, but the music of trust.

They loved each other so fully that even the walls of the hotel seemed to breathe with them.

They fell asleep later than they had intended, but they slept smiling.

A day woven from love. They had returned from the rink, laughing and holding hands. Snow still sparkled in her hair like scattered diamonds, and he gently brushed a small flake from her cheek with his palm.

– You’re the most beautiful, even when frozen, – he said, and Mary smiled in a way that made his heart tremble.

In their room, warm light glowed. On the table, breakfast he had ordered in advance awaited them—fresh croissants, aromatic coffee, chocolate-dipped strawberries. Mary had removed her coat, remaining in a light champagne-colored dress. Her hair flowed in waves, her skin glowed with warmth, and her long legs in sheer stockings seemed the embodiment of elegance.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

– You are my celebration, – he whispered.

– And you are my peace, – she replied, touching his temple with her lips.

They ate slowly, as if breakfast were a continuation of their closeness. Every sip of coffee was like a confession, every bite of strawberry like a kiss.

After breakfast, he gave her roses—delicate, crimson, as if they had preserved the breath of the night. She pressed the bouquet to her chest, and her eyes shone, as if the roses were not flowers but a revelation.

Their love spread between them again—softly, deeply, with that tenderness known only to those who truly love. Their breathing became a rhythm, the pauses—music. He kissed her lips, sweet and raspberry-colored, each kiss like a new dawn. Her body responded in every cell, and at the same time, their souls seemed to sing the same melody—simple, yet eternal.

– I love it when you look at me like this, – she whispered, – as if I were the only one in the world.

– Because you are, – he answered.

They dissolved into each other, their love like the continuation of a dream—a reality where words were unnecessary.

Later, when the day brightened outside, they decided to go for a walk. Through the streets, they held each other’s hands like children. Mary’s laughter rang lightly; passersby turned to admire her beauty, but she looked only at him.

In the evening, a surprise awaited them—a rink under the starry sky. Music played, lights flickered, and gliding on the ice, they laughed as if reliving their first date.

And that day, from morning to evening, they discovered a simple truth: love has no hours. It either exists, or it does not. And if it exists, every moment becomes eternity.

The next morning, the city awoke under a light mist. The air was fresh, and Mary still slept when Efendi quietly stepped outside—to walk, to think, to pray in his heart for the happiness Allah had granted him.

He walked along the waterfront when he noticed a man standing at the edge of a bridge. The wind tousled his clothes, his step was unsure, his gaze fixed on the cold water below. People passed by, but no one dared stop.

Efendi approached calmly, without shouting, as if afraid to startle a bird.

– Brother, wait, – he said gently. – What are you trying to do?

– I have no strength left, – the man whispered. – No one needs me. Everything is lost.

Efendi looked directly into his eyes.

– No, brother, not everything is lost. The most valuable thing you have is already yours. Life. It’s not yours—it is a gift from Allah. He gave it to you to face trials, not to run from them.

The man lowered his head. Tears ran down his cheeks.

– I can’t…

– You can, – Efendi said firmly. – Because life is struggle, and its purpose is to overcome all trials. Do you think I have had no pain? Everyone does. But Allah tests those He loves—to strengthen them.

He held out his hand.

– Come. Together. Today you start anew.

The man trembled, stepped back, grabbed Efendi’s hand—and as if returned to life. People finally stopped; someone called an ambulance, but the most important thing had already happened—the soul that teetered on the edge chose to stay.

Efendi embraced him.

– Brother, you are not alone. Remember this.

That evening, returning to Mary, Efendi looked at her for a long time—at her lively eyes, her smile, the tenderness that warmed his heart. And he understood: the greatest happiness is to give yourself, to give protection and care.

At dinner, he took her hand and said:

– I have a gift for you, one I’ve held in my heart for a long time. This is my mahr for you.

On the table lay an envelope with keys. At first Mary didn’t understand, but opening the documents, she gasped—a New York apartment, in a building with a view of Central Park.

– This is your home, – he said. – So you’ll always have a place where you feel safe.

Her eyes filled with tears. She embraced him, pressing her body to his, whispering:

– You… are the most precious. You are my life.

And he smiled, touching her lips:

– Tomorrow we’ll go there. To New York. We’ll begin our little journey.

And the night became their universe again. But this time, in their closeness, there was something more—gratitude for life, the breath of faith, and the sense that Allah Himself guided their path.

Trials and revelations. The night in their hotel breathed in silence. Outside, the city slept, the rare hum of cars, and lights flickered like fragments of stars fallen onto asphalt. Efendi lay beside Mary, stroking her hair, listening to her breath, and suddenly, as if opening a door in his heart, spoke of what is not easily said.

– You know, Mary… I have children. And three wives. They are my family, my support. This is part of me. And I cannot hide it from you.

He spoke without haste, with a seriousness carrying his entire journey—trials, losses, joys, and long searches.

Mary listened attentively. Her eyes, full of gentle light, did not waver. She smiled softly, placing her hand on his cheek.

– I know everything, Efendi. – Her voice was like a lullaby, soft and confident. – I learned from the internet, from your pages.

He flinched—surprised, almost embarrassed.

– And you… are okay with it?

Mary laughed lightly, clearly and sincerely, like only a girl confident in her choice can. Her eyes sparkled like the night city lights.

– Everything is fine with me. I will be the fourth. – She touched his lips with a short, warm kiss. – And you know… I’m happy to be by your side.

Efendi held her close, and the weight he had carried for years melted inside him. In her words, there was no jealousy, no fear. Only acceptance and the desire to follow him, wherever fate might lead.

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