Chapter 39

DARYA

The waiting was the worst part.

Weeks stretched out like threads pulled too thin—unraveling slowly, silently, always threatening to snap. I kept busy with the tiny side job Aylin had arranged, kept applying to any Galway listing I could find “just in case,” kept refreshing my email like it was a life-support monitor.

But every night, when the streets outside my shabby apartment quieted and the city lights dimmed, the doubt crept in.

What if it didn’t work? What if the permit was denied? What if I’d escaped Iran only to get stuck in this in-between life—neither here nor there?

I tried to stay occupied in fun ways, not in miserable ones, but sometimes I was both. Frequently both.

Leila and Elias checked on me constantly—voice messages, video calls, long threads of texts.

Sometimes I could hear gulls in the background when they called, or the sound of wind off Galway Bay, and it made me ache with wanting.

I pretended to be patient.

I was absolutely not patient.

And then, one morning—bleary-eyed, in my pajamas, brushing my teeth over the tiny cracked sink—my phone buzzed with an email notification.

Subject: General Employment Permit – Decision Issued

My toothbrush froze halfway to my mouth. I spat, wiped my hands, and clicked.

I didn’t even make it to the second line before the word hit me.

Approved. Approved. Approved.

I screamed—an undignified, echoing shriek I would absolutely deny later—and danced barefoot around the apartment like a lunatic. I reached for my phone.

Then I stopped.

A simple text would be boring. A call? Too predictable.

No, no. This deserved theatrics.

I set up my phone on the windowsill, rearranged the curtain behind me so it looked vaguely like a stage backdrop, and hit record.

“Hello, my beloved exiles of Galway,” I said in my most dramatic voice. “I come bearing a message of national importance.”

I paused, holding up a completely blank sheet of paper like it was an ancient decree.

“It is with great pleasure,” I intoned, “that I inform you—wait for it—that the government of Ireland has made the tragic, irreversible mistake of letting me in.”

I blew a kiss to the camera.

Cut. Sent to our group chat.

I gave it thirty seconds before calling them.

Leila answered on the first ring, her hair still messy from morning, eyes wide. “DARYA! DID YOU—IS THAT—ARE YOU SERIOUS?”

Elias appeared behind her, half awake, holding a mug. “Please tell me that video is real and not one of your—what do you call them—dramatic monologues?”

“Monologues are never dramatic, they are art,” I corrected. Then I grinned. “And yes. It’s real. You two are stuck with me.”

Leila squealed so loudly I had to lower the volume. Elias laughed—actually laughed—and shook his head like he couldn’t believe it.

“When do you fly?” he asked.

I was already on the booking page.

“As soon as humanly possible,” I said. “I need to drop my passport at the embassy so they can issue the visa. Two or three days to process that. To be safe, let’s say I fly five days from now. I’m looking at a flight from Istanbul to Shannon. One layover in Munich. I’m taking it.”

“Book it. Now,” Leila urged.

“Done.” I hit confirm. “Five days from now.”

There was a short silence—quiet, warm, full.

“You’re coming home,” Leila whispered.

I swallowed hard.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m coming home.”

LEILA

Shannon Airport wasn’t large, but that morning it felt like an entire world—one that had shrunk itself down to a single sliding door and the space in front of it.

Elias and I stood side by side with half-warm coffees in our hands, neither of us drinking, both of us vibrating with nerves. A screen above us listed arrivals, and beside the entry for the flight which had brought Darya, the word LANDED had appeared ten minutes ago.

I couldn’t stop staring at it. Elias couldn’t stop checking the time.

“I don’t know why we’re this nervous,” he muttered, shifting his weight. “She’s the one who just flew across Europe.”

“We’re nervous because it’s Darya,” I said. “And because she’s actually coming. It doesn’t feel real yet.”

He nodded, exhaling slowly. “It will in a minute.”

A family walked past us, then a businessman, then a pair of students dragging backpacks that looked heavier than they were. Every time the doors slid open, my heart leapt into my throat, thinking she’d be there.

But she wasn’t.

Not yet.

I checked my phone again. Nothing. No new messages. I’d already read her last one at least a dozen times.

Darya:

Just landed. Feel like fainting. See you soon

I kept picturing her somewhere behind that wall of glass and metal, going through customs, clutching her newly issued visa in her passport. I pictured her clearing security, checking her hair, straightening her clothes, collecting that one suitcase that carried everything precious she had left.

“She’s taking too long,” I whispered.

“She has immigration lines,” Elias said. “Relax.”