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Chapter Eighteen ▏The Death
A cold hand seems to be gripping my throat. Tears begin to leak out from the corners of my eyes. Seeing the ruins of the carriage, the very same one that I was in on the way out of the Palace, brings back so many memories of that day.
Crossing the walls. Seeing the poverty stricken people. Rebels attacking our carriage. Uncle Osman telling me to save myself. . . .
I stare at the blood, the way it’s pooled and congealed on the dry leaves. The possibility of it being Uncle Osman’s blood is high, but it’s not something I want to believe. Not ever. Not while I’m still alive. Perhaps I can still find a way to search for him, to save him from those rebels.
Suddenly numb, I get down from the horse and walk closer to the remains of the carriage, running down a finger on the velvet lining of the seat.
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