There lived Layla in a faraway village of Yemen. She was just nineteen, but her eyes were deep, and her heart was a sea of love. She was in love with a young soldier, Adel. Adel was familiar to every villager—courageous, honest, and lively. Their love was as pure as a spring, as soft as dew on a new morning.
In the field between the hills behind the village, they had gathered so many dreams together. Layla would occasionally say, "If you ever leave, I won't survive." Adel would just smile and reply, "You will survive, because you are the one who gives my life meaning."
But one day, the smiles disappeared when war drums started beating. There was the sound of gunshots, warplanes thundered in the sky, and the air was filled with screams of people. Adel did not delay—he enlisted. On the day he departed, Layla's eyes were brimming with tears, and on Adel's lips was a faint promise: "I will come back… I will come back just for you."
Days passed, months passed, years passed—but Adel did not come back. There was silence, no letters, not even a glance at his life. Layla grew weary of waiting. Her family tried to convince her, saying, "Life waits for no one." She eventually succumbed to family pressure and societal pressure and married a schoolteacher.
Meanwhile, Adel was still alive—a captive of the enemy. Eight years he lived in a dark prison cell. No light, no hope. Yet his heart still whispered only one name—Layla.
Eight years passed, and Adel was freed and returned to his homeland. His body was frail, his eyes weary, but in his heart the old fire continued to smolder. The first thing he did was to go to the village and ask for Layla. But then he learned—she was no longer the same Layla he had known. She was now someone's wife, a mother of children.
That night, for the first time, Adel broke down. He went to the ancient meadow surrounded by the hills and sat for a long time. He called out Layla's name to the wind, but there was silence. Only the echo replied from the distant hills—"I will return… just for you."
Adel could not sit still any longer. All hopes abandoned, he once again went to war. But this time for a different reason—no longer for anyone else, he wanted to offer his final breath for his country.
Months went by, and the television screen showed a breaking news report. A brave soldier had been killed in an enemy attack—his name was Adel. On the screen was his corpse, his uniform stained with blood, and beside him—a worn-out old photo of Layla.
Layla was sitting with her children and husband then. Her eyes were fixed on the TV screen, but not a single expression crossed her face. Only her lips trembled slightly. Something in her chest silently broke.
She did not speak, no tears fell from her eyes. But in her heart, in that old meadow which was surrounded by hills, a shadow figure disappeared forever.
Her husband, who was viewing the news along with her, said, "That soldier died a hero's death."
Layla softly replied, "Yes… he was truly a hero."
She had nothing more to say. She just gazed out of the window at the distant sky. No one knew that a part of Layla's heart quietly died that day.