IX

At a seaside house of shifting fabric walls, Zakalwe lies awake beside Shias Engin, overwhelmed by love and the fragile safety she creates. He reflects on how her presence compartmentalizes his darkest memories and makes time feel tangible, even as he senses the paradox of intimacy as both gift and invasion.

A bar encounter flashes back: Shias fends off a suitor when Zakalwe interjects with a joke, leading to drinks and teasing banter about war, language, and why he’s visiting as an “alien on leave.” Their chemistry is immediate, and they begin a relationship grounded in wit and curiosity.

On their first morning together, Shias traces Zakalwe’s scars. He explains their origins—bullet, laser, insects—and deflects the one near his heart, which triggers a deeper, older pain. They talk about age and mortality, with Zakalwe revealing his extended lifespan and Shias promising to one day write a poem about him.

Back in the present morning, they debate going up the hillside to check a possibly stuck krih, planning an afternoon walk. Between tender exchanges, Zakalwe envisions the “real” Zakalwe entering with a gun to annihilate his newfound softness, symbolizing his internal war between soldier and lover.

Shias voices fear that love may not last; Zakalwe counters with simplicity and reassurance. The chapter closes on their choice to “waste a little time” together, their plan to climb the hill lingering as a quiet emblem of hope amid doubt.