The morning light painted Sword's penthouse in golden hues as he prepared for the day ahead. His usual routine—a carefully calibrated series of actions designed for maximum efficiency—felt suddenly insufficient. Today was different, though he couldn't articulate exactly why.
He selected a charcoal suit with subtle blue pinstripes, paired with a silk tie the color of midnight. His wardrobe, like every aspect of his life, had been curated to communicate a precise message: powerful yet approachable, distinguished yet contemporary.
As he adjusted his cufflinks—platinum with small sapphires, a gift from a grateful client—Sword caught himself wondering what impression he would make on Dr. Zaihra Ali. The thought surprised him. When was the last time he had concerned himself with someone else's opinion of him? Not in years, certainly. His reputation preceded him everywhere, and he had grown accustomed to the admiration that followed in his wake.
His phone chimed with a message from Laila, Tariq's sister: Did you find someone to help my friend?
The directness of children never failed to amuse him. Yes, he replied. I'm meeting her today.
Thank you, Mr. Sword. Tariq says you're a good person even though you're rich and important.
A deep sound of laughter resonated in the large bedroom when his mentor heard those words. Children possess an amazing ability to reveal honest facts through their innocent speech. The mentorship children must observe him as someone who was wealthy and important yet genuine at heart. Rich and important, but somehow still good?
The thought accompanied his descent from the elevator down toward the lobby. For the second occasion Sword decided to abandon his customary practice and walk without his driver.
Today he picked walking to reach his office instead of taking a vehicle Hasan. The university class begins only this afternoon.
Without expression the driver showed his surprise with a slight upward lift of his eyebrows before responding with another nod. This repetitive behavior was showing itself twice in succession.
The morning air transmitted multiple odors including strong coffee vapors from active cafes together with freshly baked bread aromas and rushing pedestrian perfume scents. Sword navigated through the filled street lanes with everyday assuredness by greeting selected people he encountered. During this present moment he discovered fresh curiosity toward the plain people who populated his urban domain.
As the construction workers gathered at a food vendor they laughed with shared amusement. A youthful woman balanced her infant child as she attempted to organize her child trolley. An elderly pensioner used his morning to feed pigeons using paper feeders while seated on a bench. Between all his previous passings through the city Sword had failed to genuinely witness what happened on each street.
Sehrish reached him through a phone call which disrupted his walk.
She greeted him with a seductive tone that said "Good morning" to an unfamiliar person. Many people at The Pinnacle asked for you last night because you were absent from the event. Many female customers at The Pinnacle actually inquired about your presence.
"Only half?" Sword moved to the side while watching the schoolchildren go by before continuing his walk. "I must be losing my touch."
"Hardly," she laughed. The remaining women never approached him because of pride. A critical matter requires your attention regarding Miyazaki business activities. The Miyazaki executive leader is unexpectedly visiting and seeks an appointment. Today."
Sword frowned. Online Pro Defense Technologies operates as one of the global technology leader's largest worldwide clients. "What time?"
"That's the problem. The only window he has is at three. I know you have that lecture to attend, but—"
"Find someone else to take the meeting," he interrupted, surprising himself with the firmness in his voice. "This is a commitment I need to honor."
The silence on the other end spoke volumes. Sword Ahmed, passing up a meeting with a major CEO for... what? A university lecture by an unknown psychologist?
"This must be some lecture," Sehrish finally said, curiosity evident in her tone.
"It's not about the lecture," he replied, though that wasn't entirely true. "It's about a promise I made to help a child."
Another pause, then a softened voice: "I forget sometimes that there's more to you than boardrooms and brilliant strategies. I'll handle Miyazaki. Good luck with your... mission of mercy."
He smiled as he ended the call, continuing his walk with lighter steps. The decision should have created anxiety—missing a high-profile client meeting went against every principle of his professional life. Yet instead, he felt an unfamiliar liberation.
By the time he reached his office building, the morning was half gone. He breezed through the lobby, acknowledging greetings from security guards and receptionists with warm smiles. In the elevator, he found himself sharing the space with one of the junior analysts, a young woman whose name escaped him.
"Good morning, Mr. Sword," she said, her voice betraying slight nervousness.
"Good morning," he replied, then added, "I'm afraid I've forgotten your name, though I recognize you from the Miller project."
Her eyes widened slightly at being remembered at all. "Nadia, sir. Nadia Rahman."
"How are you finding the work, Nadia?"
The simple question seemed to both surprise and please her. "Challenging, but in the best way. I'm learning so much."
"That's the point, isn't it?" he said with a smile as the elevator reached his floor. "Learning never stops. Even for those of us who've been at it a while."
As he stepped out, he heard her call after him: "Mr. Sword? Thank you for asking."
Such a small thing, that exchange. Yet as he walked to his office, Sword found himself wondering how many Nadias worked in his building—bright, dedicated people he passed every day without truly seeing.
The morning passed in a flurry of meetings and calls. At lunch, he declined the usual catered meal in the executive dining room and instead ventured to a small Lebanese restaurant two blocks away. The owner, an older man with a magnificent white beard, greeted him with obvious surprise.
"Mr. Sword! A two-year absence has passed since you left because we did not see you.
Had it been that long? Sword found this eatery during an especially challenging project that caused him to spend many late nights at work. Sword discovered that the meal matched traditional hints with novel concepts.
He replied courteously "You have been absent for too long Mr. Hafez." "I've missed your cooking."
He led Sword to the table with the finest view of the restaurant to sit. "You sit, you sit. I will bring you a feast!"
The promised meal arrived which included creamy hummus topped with olive oil and sumac seasoning followed by tabbouleh with parsley and lemon along with lamb kofta that was still warm from the grill. Sword methodically ate his food while being truly attentive to the delicious tastes. Somewhere along the way food ceased becoming sustenance and became confined to meetings and purposes of fuel only. The entire experience of this meal stimulated his entire set of senses.
Mr. Hafez declined payment from Sword while he tried to cover his restaurant expenses. "No, no! Your return is payment enough. You should not delay this experience for another two years after today.
Sword made a firm promise that he would follow through.
He navigated the university campus after two-thirty until finally reaching the auditorium where Dr. Zaihra Ali would present. Several students lay on the lawns as they discussed topics of interest while others used their coffee to hurry between classes.
The auditorium was modest in size but nearly full when he arrived. He took a seat toward the back, feeling oddly conspicuous in his business attire amidst the casual academic crowd. A few minutes later, a hush fell over the room as a woman approached the podium.
Dr. Zaihra Ali was not what he had expected. The newspaper photograph had captured her features but failed entirely to convey her presence. She wore simple clothing—dark trousers and a jewel-toned blouse beneath a tailored blazer—but carried herself with quiet dignity. Her hair, as black as night, was pulled back in a loose knot at the nape of her neck, revealing the delicate contours of her face. But it was her eyes that captured his attention—bright brown and somehow ancient, as if they had witnessed countless human stories unfold.
"Thank you all for coming," she began, her voice clear and melodious. "Today I'd like to discuss a phenomenon that continues to challenge our understanding of the mind-body connection in children."
From those opening words, Sword found himself utterly engaged. Zaihra spoke with neither the dry detachment of pure academics nor the performative passion of motivational speakers. Instead, she conveyed complex ideas with lucid precision, weaving together neuroscience, psychology, and deeply human case studies.
She described children whose physical ailments defied traditional diagnosis—chronic pain, mysterious fevers, persistent fatigue—until someone thought to look beyond the body to the mind and spirit.
To make her point she stepped away from the lectern and addressed those listening in person instead of through the microphone. Physical health gets split from emotional well-being in our society although people exist as integrated units instead of machine-like combinations of pieces. Children show their distress as a complete state because they have not acquired the artificial divisions that adults have learned to make.
The words Sword heard made him shift his attention from aiding the ill child toward considering his own state. Has he not built boundaries which match those he established in his existence? People draw divisions between their occupations and their significance and results and their bondings and profound relationships.
Our fragmented healthcare model needs adaptation rather than children needing to learn our medical systems so these children can feel understood in all their completeness. Through recognizing the truth of their situations and fully perceiving their needs healing can begin to occur for them.
Zaihra conducted "emotional archaeology" on a ten-year-old boy to investigate and heal his chronic stomach pain which resolved without medication.
Sword received the audience cheers while staying in his chair to absorb the information he had just obtained. A small group of listeners gathered close to the podium to have conversations with Zaihra while other people moved away from their seat. During his wait he studied how she connected with students and faculty members at the school. She provided absolute focus to everyone who approached her by listening with the same depth she used for speaking.
People left the crowd and Sword kept waiting until the area finally became less busy. When he approached he saw elements which vanished from afar including the tiny silver pendant she wore around her neck and the faint wrinkles on her forehead which revealed her deep concentration combined with the elegant way her hands handled her papers.
"Dr. Ali," he said, extending his hand. "My name is Sword. I was hoping for a moment of your time."
She looked up, and the full force of her attention was like nothing he had experienced before. Her gaze was direct, unfiltered by the usual social calculations or preconceptions. She was simply... present, in a way few people ever truly are.
"Mr. Sword," she replied, taking his hand briefly. Her touch was warm and firm. "An unusual name."
He revealed that such name persisted from his early childhood. The reason of my visit involves a child whose friend belongs to one of my mentees. Doctor examinations have failed to identify her current medical symptoms. You were suggested to help at the Children's Research Center during my consultation with them.
She looked at him deeply with her gaze. "You mentor children?"
He seemed unprepared when the question was posed. People assume that his wealth and generous character when they recognize him due to his name and wealthy appearance. No one in his presence dared to raise any concerns about his relationship with vulnerable children.
"Yes," he said simply. "Bright kids from disadvantaged backgrounds. A friend of his needs specialized assistance so he became your potential beneficiary.
A trace of happiness appeared on her face which softened her serious mood. The gathering brought you to my presentation to determine my fitness for the role.
He started to respond but stopped because she proved to be correct in her assessment. "Yes, I suppose I did."
"And your conclusion?" Her speech demonstrated nothing but real curiosity.
He admitted his wish to understand your teaching methods better. Your method of treating students by viewing their complete selves while avoiding their individual symptoms matches the approach this case requires.
She put the remaining papers into her messenger leather bag while she nodded. The designated office hours terminate at five o'clock. A café can be found directly across the grounds from medical library. Do you agree to join me at that location to review the project details?
Toward his surprise he quickly accepted the request.
"Until then, Mr. Sword." She picked up her bag then walked by him as she left behind a faint touch of jasmine perfume.
He watched her go, struck by the strange sense that something monumental had just occurred—though outwardly, it had been nothing more than a brief, professional exchange.
His phone buzzed with a message from Phoenix: Community center at 6? Still on?
Will be there, he confirmed, then added, Met the doctor. Seeing her again at 5.
The reply came swiftly: Twice in one day? She must be impressive.
Sword smiled to himself. She is. But not in the way you're thinking.
With two hours to fill before meeting Zaihra, Sword found himself wandering the university campus. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across well-tended lawns and historic buildings. Students hurried past, their youth and potential an almost tangible energy in the air.
He found a bench beneath a massive oak tree and sat, loosening his tie in concession to the informal atmosphere. When was the last time he had simply... sat? Not reviewing documents, not strategizing, not networking—just existing in a moment?
A young woman approached, clipboard in hand. "Excuse me, sir? Do you have a minute to sign a petition for expanded mental health services on campus?"
In his normal life, Sword would have politely declined or, more likely, handed her a business card with an offer to make a donation instead. Today, he gestured to the empty space beside him. "Tell me more about it."
Her surprise quickly gave way to passionate advocacy. As she explained the insufficient resources for students in crisis, Sword found himself genuinely engaged in the conversation. When he finally signed her petition, he added his business card with a note to contact him about potential corporate sponsorship.
"Thank you!" she exclaimed. "Most people just brush me off."
"Most people are too busy being important to remember what's actually important," he replied, surprising himself with the observation.
The remainder of the afternoon passed in similar small encounters—a brief conversation with a philosophy professor about ethics in business, helping a lost freshman find the administrative building, watching a group of students practice a dance routine on the quad.
By the time five o'clock approached, Sword felt strangely rejuvenated. There was something about this environment—the free exchange of ideas, the pursuit of knowledge for its own sake, the youthful idealism—that reminded him of values he had once held dear.
The café Zaihra had mentioned was a cozy establishment with worn leather armchairs and shelves of books lining the walls. Classical music played softly beneath the hum of conversation. He ordered a chai tea and selected a quiet corner table to wait.
She arrived precisely at five, her professional blazer now replaced with a cardigan in deep burgundy. With her hair still pulled back and minimal makeup, she embodied a natural elegance that made the fashionable women of his social circle seem suddenly overdone.
"Mr. Sword," she greeted him, setting down her messenger bag. "Thank you for waiting."
"Thank you for making time," he replied, rising briefly as she took the seat opposite him. "May I get you something to drink?"
"Mint tea, please," she said with a grateful smile.
When he returned with her tea, he found her examining one of his business cards. "Consulting," she read. "Strategic solutions for complex problems. Very broad."
"Deliberately so," he acknowledged. "We work across industries, but our specialty is helping organizations navigate challenges that resist conventional approaches."
"And you're successful at this," she observed. It wasn't a question.
"Yes," he said simply, neither boasting nor false modesty. "But today I'm here in a personal capacity. About the child I mentioned."
Zaihra set down his card and wrapped her hands around the warm teacup. "Tell me about this child."
Sword realized, with some embarrassment, how little he actually knew. "Her name is Mina. She's nine years old. She's been experiencing severe headaches and episodes of what the doctors are calling 'absence seizures'—moments where she seems to disconnect from reality. All the tests show normal brain function, no physiological cause they can identify."
"And her life circumstances?" Zaihra asked, her focus absolute.
"I don't know," he admitted. "Only that she's friends with the sister of one of my mentees."
Zaihra nodded thoughtfully. "I would need to meet her, speak with her family, understand her context before I could offer any meaningful help. Medicine—even psychological medicine—isn't one-size-fits-all. Each child's healing path is unique."
"Of course," Sword agreed. "I can arrange a meeting with her family, if you're willing."
"I am," she said, then tilted her head slightly as if considering him anew. "But I'm curious. You're clearly a busy man with significant resources. You could have simply made a referral or had an assistant handle this. Why the personal involvement?"
The question was penetrating but not accusatory. Zaihra seemed genuinely interested in understanding his motivation.
"I made a promise," he said, then realized there was more to it. "And I suppose... I believe in keeping communication channels direct when it matters. Too much gets lost in delegation."
She smiled, a warm expression that reached her eyes. "A wise philosophy. One I share, actually. In my work, presence is everything. Being fully there with a child in distress can be as healing as any technique or therapy."
"I noticed that in your lecture," Sword found himself saying. "The way you spoke about seeing the whole child, not just the symptoms. It reminded me of something I've been feeling lately—a sense that life has become... compartmentalized."
The words emerged unbidden, more personal than he had intended. Yet Zaihra showed no surprise at this turn in the conversation.
"Modern life encourages compartmentalization," she observed. "We separate work from home, mind from body, logic from emotion—all in the name of efficiency. But human beings aren't designed to function that way. We're integrated systems. When we force ourselves into artificial divisions, something essential is lost."
"What would you call that essential thing?" Sword asked, genuinely curious.
Zaihra considered the question, taking a sip of her tea before answering. "Authenticity, perhaps. Or wholeness. The state of being fully alive in each moment, rather than partialing ourselves out according to context."
The simplicity and depth of her answer resonated with him. How long had it been since he had felt "fully alive in each moment"? Years, probably. Success had brought many privileges, but it had also ushered in a kind of autopilot existence—effortlessly excellent but somehow disconnected from the raw experience of living.
"You're not what I expected, Dr. Ali," he said honestly.
"Please, call me Zaihra," she offered. "And what did you expect?"
"Someone more... clinical, I suppose. More detached."
She laughed softly, the sound like gentle music. "Ah, the stereotype of the cool, analytical psychologist. I know it well. But I've found that true healing requires connection, not detachment. To understand another's pain, one must be willing to feel it alongside them, at least in part."
"Isn't that exhausting?" he asked.
"Tremendously," she agreed without hesitation. "But also infinitely rewarding. There's nothing quite like witnessing a child reclaim their joy, their sense of safety in the world."
As she spoke, Sword noticed the pendant she wore—a small silver crescent moon inlaid with tiny stars. "Beautiful piece," he commented.
Her hand rose to touch it briefly. "A gift from my first patient—a girl who had stopped speaking after a trauma. When she finally began talking again, her mother gave me this as a thank you. The girl said I had 'brought back the stars to her night sky.'"
The story touched him unexpectedly. In his world, gifts were often strategic—designed to curry favor or demonstrate status. This simple pendant, given in genuine gratitude, seemed more valuable than any luxury item he owned.
"You love your work," he observed.
"I do," she confirmed. "Though 'work' feels like the wrong word. Calling, perhaps."
"A calling," he repeated thoughtfully. Had he ever felt that kind of purpose? In the early days, perhaps, when the challenge of building something from nothing had consumed him with passionate intensity. But somewhere along the way, success had transformed purpose into position, calling into career.
Their conversation continued, flowing naturally from Mina's case to broader discussions of healing, purpose, and modern life. Zaihra spoke with the same thoughtful clarity he had observed in her lecture, but in this intimate setting, he also glimpsed her gentle humor and quiet wisdom.
He was startled when his phone chimed with a reminder: Community center with Phoenix in 30 minutes.
"I'm afraid I have another commitment," he said, genuinely regretful to end their conversation.
"Of course," Zaihra replied, gathering her things. "About Mina—if you can connect me with her family, I'd be happy to see her for an initial consultation."
"I'll arrange it," Sword promised, then hesitated before adding, "And perhaps we could continue our conversation another time? I found it... enlightening."
Something flickered in her expression—surprise, perhaps, or curiosity. "I'd like that," she said simply.
They exchanged contact information, and as Sword watched her leave the café, he felt a strange certainty that something significant had shifted in his carefully ordered world. It wasn't just her beauty, though she was undeniably beautiful. It wasn't just her intelligence, though her mind was clearly extraordinary.
It was something more elusive—a quality of presence, of authentic being, that made the social masks and strategic personas of his usual circles seem suddenly hollow by comparison.
As he headed toward his meeting with Phoenix, Sword found himself pondering an unexpected question: What would it be like to be fully seen—not as Mr. Sword, the brilliant, successful, magnetic personality whose reputation preceded him everywhere—but simply as himself, with all his hidden complexities and unacknowledged longings?
The thought both thrilled and terrified him.