He stood in front of the room and placed his palm on the door. He paused for a moment, gathering his strength to face what was inside. Slowly, he pushed the door open as if it weighed a ton—heavy things are those that our hearts bear. It was the first time anyone had opened the door of the king's room since his death. It had remained locked, untouched by anyone, not even the palace workers who had neglected to clean the dust from it. Abu Bakr had thought he was the one most saddened by his father's passing, but the room itself seemed to mourn—its gloom and sadness were palpable. Darkness filled half the room, while faint light from the closed balcony illuminated the other half. He stepped back, locked the door again, and began to study every small detail as if seeing it for the first time.
It was a king's room, but its simplicity reflected the character of the person who had lived there. To the right, there was a small cabinet with old books, above which Arabic vases were engraved with verses from the Qur'an. To the left, an old wooden chair was tilted as though someone had just risen from it. In front of the chair stood a small table with books pulled out of the cabinet, and next to them was the small box he had brought from Egypt. The king had always revered knowledge, establishing the largest university to house all kinds of sciences.
Abu Bakr approached the table, took the box in his hands, and was surprised to find that the lock was already open. A sense of longing swept over him, and he felt an urge to know what was inside. His father must have opened it on that last night. Slowly, he removed the lock once more and opened the box. Inside was a very old book, its pages brittle with age. It was written in a language he had never seen before. He never knew his father could speak languages unknown to him.
Holding the book, Abu Bakr turned the pages one by one, his face full of astonishment. Each page was adorned with images of geometric structures. One depicted a small island with statues of strange heads emerging from the ground, all pointing in the same direction. Another showed a mountain with a city engraved on it, resembling the Canaanite city he had seen in drawings. There were also images of the Egyptian pyramids he had visited, along with depictions of cities that were unfamiliar to him—perhaps lost to time.
He closed the book, turning it over in his hands. It felt heavy for a book of its size, its thin pages written in delicate handwriting. Its cover, however, was plain except for a title written in an unknown script. Abu Bakr took the book and closed the balcony door overlooking the sea. He walked toward the exit, holding the book tightly in his hands. As he glanced around one last time, he felt as though he were burying his father again, but this time, with dirt from his own hands. He closed his eyes for a moment, then closed the door behind him and left.