He watched from behind his curtains as she found it. She paused. She read it while sitting on her bicycle seat, one foot on the ground. A slow smile spread across her face—not a laugh, not confusion, but a private, sad smile. She folded the letter carefully and tucked it into her breast pocket.
She mounted her red bicycle and pedaled up the hill, the song Fasl Alany fading in from the neighbor’s radio as the sun rose. He watched from behind his curtains as she found it
Layla C/O The Red Bicycle Lane Al-Waha