Eight O’Clock

Every morning at exactly eight, she arrived.

Never a minute off. Never early. Never late.

Her name was Sabah, and with her came a smile so steady it felt rehearsed, a smile that seemed untouched by stress or noise or the shifting moods of the office.

Then came the routine.

She would place her hand in mine for a brief moment, no more than a few seconds, then pull away and return to her desk as if nothing unusual had happened. The rest of the day she acted completely normal. No extra attention. No personal conversations. No explanations.

Just that one quiet moment at eight o’clock.

Nine months passed like this, and every day I carried the same questions. Why did she do it? What did she want? And why did she act as if the rest of the day didn’t exist?

One morning I walked into work feeling unusually happy. The next day I would be leaving for a long break in my home village by the Nile. The thought alone made me lighter.

At exactly eight, Sabah appeared. Same smile. Same brief touch of her hand on mine.

Without thinking too much, I told her, “I’m taking leave tomorrow. I’ll be spending some time back home.”

The change in her face was instant.

The smile vanished.

A tense line formed on her forehead.

Her eyes shifted in a way I had never seen before.

Then she said quietly, “Then… I will travel to your village.”

I had no words.

She took a small step closer, her voice pleading. “Please trust me. I won’t cause any trouble for your family.”

I walked away, unable to make sense of anything. Her words followed me the entire day.

That night I tried to piece together a reasonable explanation, but every attempt collapsed. The confusion stayed with me until sleep finally pulled me under.

And that is when the dream began.

I saw myself running across a wide, empty desert. Behind me was Sabah, chasing me with a strange determination. No matter how fast I ran, she kept closing the distance. When I reached a lonely graveyard, I imagined her stepping out from every grave. Panic made my legs move even faster.

Suddenly the desert opened into a sea.

I jumped in and began swimming, moving effortlessly through the water even though I cannot swim in real life. I swam far from the shore, farther than I thought possible. When I turned back, she stood at the edge of the water, watching me with frustration in her eyes.

Relief filled me.

I began whistling, singing a playful old tune about being afraid of someone’s unexpected presence.

But before I could finish, something sliced through the water behind me.

She was coming.

Not walking. Not running. Cutting through the sea like a fired arrow, her eyes intense and locked onto me.

Terror overwhelmed me.

I screamed over and over, “No, no, no!”

The scream tore me awake.

I sat up drenched in sweat, breathing hard, my sheets tangled like I had been fighting in my sleep.

Without hesitation, I packed and left before sunrise. I drove for hours until I reached my village, desperate for distance and silence.

When I stepped out of the car, the door struck something soft. A foot. A woman’s foot.

I looked down and saw delicate shoes.

Then a white dress I recognized immediately.

Then the familiar scent I could never forget.

I lifted my gaze slowly.

There she was. Sabah.

Smiling the same wide smile she wore every morning.

Her hand extended toward me.

I looked at my watch.

Eight o’clock.