I let my forearm rest atop my forelock, and breathed in the darkness that encompassed me. Silhouettes of my blinds reflected hallucinations of imprisonment. My flowerless vase sat atop my bookless sill. Vacant cold rushed in from sealed windows and I closed my eyes.
"Sara?"
"Yeah?" the voice on the receiver answered absent-mindedly.
"I gave up on the world..," I trailed off.
The void was filled with a concerned reassuring that I grew accustomed to. After a while, she breathed in, flustered. I do not blame her. Had it been me speaking to myself, I'd have choked sense into my senselessness.
"Why, Ikraan?"
"Because the world gave up on me."
And I emitted a deep, long, audible breath of defeat. Five centuries ago, this was The Moor's Last Sigh. Five centuries later, Abu `Abdallah instilled within me the honor of releasing what he held captive his entire life.
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