Their lips found each other.
Slowly.
Not like in the movies.
But like in life —
with breath, with eyes,
with a body that says:
“I’m here. I’m yours. You’re mine.”
Love isn’t grand gestures.
It’s warm hands on a waist.
It’s the tea he pours for her,
so her voice doesn’t grow cold.
The Prosecutor’s Autumn
Kuwait. Chicago. October.
Leaves whispered underfoot
as he walked through the park
in his prosecutor’s coat,
carrying not just documents —
but human stories.
He was no longer a boy.
Not a man searching for himself.
He was someone who knew:
truth isn’t always light.
Sometimes it’s a knife.
Sometimes – a prayer.
Sometimes – silence.
Autumn in Chicago was fragile,
like sorrow made of glass.
Jeanne was away on a work trip.
The house smelled only of coffee
and her forgotten scarf.
He was alone.
One plate on the table.
And a silence in his chest
so deep, it could be heard.
He opened the window.
Leaves drifted down.
The city murmured.
Inside – strange peace.
He wrote in his notebook:
“If I could choose…
I wouldn’t be a hero.
I’d just be a man
holding someone’s hand
in October.
Judging no one —
except himself.”
Fates passed through him
like wind through the park.
Some broke.
Some returned.
He didn’t save everyone.
But sometimes – at least one.
And he walked on.
Carefully. Steadily.
Leaves beneath his feet.
A woman in his heart.
A past he’d let go.
And a truth worth keeping silent for.
Kuwait was a prosecutor.
But more than that —
he was a man.
With eyes the color of earth,
and a heart that knew:
Autumn isn’t about endings.
It’s about breathing —
as long as there’s someone
left to love.
The Prosecutor’s Inner Journal
Kuwait Alim
Chapter 1: Case No. 187. Autumn. A Girl Without a Name.
Date Opened: October 4
Case Type: Homicide. Abduction. Rape. Presumed concealment of a body.
The police transferred the case to the prosecutor’s office due to its complexity and public outcry.
Victim's Name: … (officially unidentified)
Suspects: Two known. Neither detained.
Entry 1.
Today I looked at the photographs.
A girl. Young.
Last video: lobby camera. 11:14 PM.
Then – a black hole.
No body. No weapon.
Just a phone trail, blood in the trunk, and silence.
I held her bag in my hands – found in a vacant lot.
Lipstick. A comb.
A note: “Call me if you get scared.”
I thought:
Who did she call when she was truly afraid?
Her phone shut off at 11:27 PM.