Page 16 of Eternal
He picked me up from the airport in an old gray SUV. Didn’t say much. He looked at me like I was a ghost and smiled.Honestlysmiled.
We drove in silence for almost two hours, through dust and hills and cracked roads, until we reached his house. The same house as in the photo.
Blue and still beautiful.
It was strange at first.Awkward. But he kept saying,you are family.And Iwasfamily in a way.
He treated me like we shared the same blood and never asked anything in return.
I loved it there.
Jordan was beautiful. That didn’t surprise me, it was as beautiful as Mom used to describe it to me. The hills, the dust, the way the sun hit the stone buildings at dusk, it was all soft, almost gold.
And no one looked at me strangely. Not at my curls, not at my skin, not at my eyes. They smiled gently, asked if I needed anything.
And I smiled back.
I felt…okay, like I could simply be myself.
It felt good, but also a littlestrange. Being there, knowing this was where my mother grew up, where she was born, where she got married, and got pregnant withme.
Where my real father, the one I never knew, was buried before I was even walking.
It was beautiful.
And it didn’t judge me. It simply existed. Quiet. Still. Like it had waited for me.
And then the training began.
He showed no mercy, not once.
If I bled, I bled. If I cried, it mixed with the blood on my sleeves. I learned to stop apologizing for pain, to move faster, hit harder, and fall smarter. I learned tosurvive.
Tariq never shouted.
He never raised a hand in anger, but he didn’t need to. That made it different.
I had a break for five years, I didn’t even tell him what happened, I told him I left my foster house, and didn't explain how, or when or why.
But he nodded calmly and smiled. He didn’t need to yell. His voice was enough, calm, steady, impossible to ignore. “Pain is your ally, Azra,” he’d say, watching me struggle to stand. “Don’t fear the blood. Fear its absence. It means you’re failing.”
He pushed me until I broke, then he waited, watched to see if I’d put myself back together.
And I did, again, and again. Forfiveyears.
He was helping me learn more about my culture. Taught me how to cook some traditional meals and take care of my hair, even how to make a good tea.
And he was really good at communicating with me. I never stopped training, never stopped wanting to be sharper, faster, more dangerous, and it paid.
I remember how the Jordanian sun burned everything it touched, the sky, the sand, and me. It was a dry, blistering heat that hollowed you out from the inside.
My throat was cracked, my lungs shredded, but I wasn’t allowed to stop.
Tariq stood behind me and nodded every time I cried. Like the tears made me stronger in a way.
He hadn’t been sure why I was there, not at first. I told him I wanted to be stronger, for my mother’s memory. That he was the only family I could turn to, that was all it took. After that, he didn’t ask again.
He pushed me harder. “Faster, Azra,” he would say. “You think your enemies will wait for you to catch your breath?”
