“Layan, it’s getting dark. Call me when you hear this.”
Then he waited.
At seven-thirty, he called again.
At eight, he contacted one of her university friends.
Had Layan mentioned meeting anyone?
Had she changed her plans?
Did anyone know which section of the mountain she intended to explore?
The answers only deepened his concern.
She had told several classmates about a plant-collection trip, but no one had accompanied her.
By nine o’clock, Mahmoud was driving toward the trailhead himself.
His headlights cut through the darkness as he followed the winding mountain road. He gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his fingers ached.
When he reached the parking area, he saw her car.
It was exactly where she had left it.
He pulled beside it, stepped into the cold night air, and called her name.
“Layan!”
His voice echoed against the rocks.
There was no answer.
He searched around the car.
