Gently

by Mohammad Abedi

The snow gently settled on the ground and covered the narrow streets of the neighborhood. The soft, white flakes fell from the sky like silent tears. The air was cold, colder than he had expected. His hands were buried deep in the pockets of his coat, and his breath turned to vapor in the frigid air. Somewhere in the heart of the night, under a shower of snow, he awoke. A man alone, in a small rented house, in a world where nothing was clear or certain. A house that seemed to be perpetually on the verge of collapsing.

The sound of a knock pulled him from his troubled thoughts. His steps, slow and heavy, carried him to the door. When he opened it, he saw a small package lying on the ground. There was no sign of the sender, no message except for what was hidden inside. He picked up the box and found a gun inside. Along with it, a simple letter, written in a dry, emotionless hand:

"By the end of the night, you must kill someone of your choosing. Otherwise, all the things you don't want anyone to know will be revealed."

The sound of his heartbeat echoed in his ears. His gaze was fixed on the gun and the letter. His mind was filled with questions, none of which had answers. Fear of the unknown enveloped him. He had never seen himself in such a complicated and dark situation. He had to make a decision. But how? Where?

With trembling hands, he put the gun in his pocket and walked toward the door. He had to leave the house. He had to choose someone in this cold, uncertain world. Someone who deserved death. But the question was, why? Why should anyone have to do this?

Outside, the snow continued to fall, and the air grew colder. He kept walking, his thoughts still tangled, wandering through the dark alleys. He didn’t know where to go or what to do. Perhaps he would find something in a café. Maybe, just maybe, someone could help him.

In a small café on a corner of the street, he entered. The warm air inside was a stark contrast to the cold outside, but soon he felt that the warmth couldn’t dissipate the chill deep within him. He went to one of the tables and sat down. For a moment, everything in the café seemed lifeless to him. Nothing was attractive. The only sounds in the room were meaningless murmurs that added nothing to him.

A young waiter passing by approached him. The man glanced at him quickly. The waiter appeared indifferent, his face somewhat gaunt, his eyes a little tired. He seemed unaware of the world outside. His eyes only focused on the table and the orders, and even when he looked at the man, it was as if his mind was elsewhere. The man ordered a coffee, and the waiter, with long, indifferent steps, passed by him.

The man drank his coffee slowly. His hands were still slightly trembling. When the cup was empty, he gently took a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. As he took the first drag, his eyes fell on a man sitting in another corner of the café. His face was far from ordinary. He was looking at something in front of him with great intensity, but there was something in his gaze that the man couldn’t explain. He was either gazing inwardly or thinking about something that others couldn’t understand. This man appeared to be lost in his inner world, but for the man in his situation, such people seemed to have a distorted understanding of life. There was something in this man that reminded him of himself—motionless, silent, and numb.

After a while, when his cigarette was finished, the man lit another one. The smoke slowly wafted from his mouth. His eyes landed on an elderly woman sitting near the door. She was staring strangely out of the window, perfectly still. Her eyes were completely vacant, as if she were lost in another world. There were no signs of joy or sorrow on her face. She seemed to be cut off from the outside world in some way. Something in her gaze made him think. Perhaps one day, he would reach this point—at a place where only death could relieve all this longing and confusion.

As he smoked, his attention shifted to another man sitting in another corner of the café. He seemed completely unaware of everything and indifferent to the world around him. This man was different from the rest. There was something in his behavior and his gaze that made the man feel like this person might cause him trouble. But what trouble? He didn’t know. He only knew there was something in this man that made him feel threatened. Something he needed to avoid.

He took a deep breath and extinguished his cigarette in the empty coffee cup. His heart was in turmoil. His hands trembled fiercely from the cold and stress. There was nothing in the café that could calm him. None of these people mattered to him. He only needed to free himself from this situation. But how?

He returned home. The snow was still falling. He went back to the small, numb house, a place where nothing could take away the coldness inside him. Under the dim yellow light of the lamps, he pulled out the gun and held it in his hands. Something inside him had broken. His hands, empty from the roughness and weight of the gun, felt lifeless. He no longer wanted to kill anyone. Maybe he couldn’t. All that remained in his heart was the fear of exposing the secrets he had kept inside.

The man slowly took the gun out of his pocket. His gaze remained fixed on it. What he held in his hands was like a cold, lifeless stone that would never give him a sense of power. His fate could not be determined by these hands. They had wanted him to kill someone, but he couldn’t do it. Something inside him told him that he could not succumb to this cruelty.

He placed the gun on the ground. The cold that had seeped into his hands from it had also penetrated his heart. He walked to the table by the bed and picked up the rope. His hand trembled, but this tremor wasn’t doubt—it was a decision forming in his heart that only he could understand. He no longer cared for their cruel words.

He held the rope carefully in his hand. His gaze on it was that of someone preparing something that he would do of his own volition, not based on someone else’s orders. It was as if he intended to take control of something he had long avoided. He held the rope and gently placed it around his neck. This movement wasn’t one of haste or anxiety, but a precise, calculated action. His movements were soft and slow. At this moment, he wasn’t surrendering; he was making a choice. A choice that was based on his own decisions.

In total silence, what needed to happen was clearly internalized within him. His hands now worked without hesitation. The rope tightened, but not from weakness—rather, from a kind of will that was free from fear. There was no sound around him, only the sound of his breath, which grew deeper into an even greater silence.

All that he needed to do was done. This act was not just surrendering to the order; it was a denial of it. A denial that manifested in his actions, not words. He had decided to change something, not with the gun or by killing, but in another way—silently and without sound.

In that moment, in the heart of that silence, only he and his inner fears remained. He had made his decision. A decision that no one but himself would understand.

His gaze faded into his eyes, and darkness engulfed everything.

A few days later, the newspapers revealed:

"Thirteen people, each with the same letter found in their homes, ended their lives in different ways."

BIO: Mohammad Abedi is a novelist, filmmaker, and child rights activist. He is a fellow at Yale GJP. His novels have been translated into more than 15 languages, and his films and screenplays have been nominated for, or awarded prizes at, over 130 international film festivals. He is the founder of Hermes Magazine and of Teachers Against Poverty (affiliated with Academics Stand Against Poverty). Abedi has completed some 30 academic courses at universities such as Harvard, Yale, Pennsylvania, Edinburgh, and the University California.