Chapter 26: The Weight in the Pocket

The Letter in the Market

For two weeks following the peaceful six-month milestone, Hunza’s routine remained as steady and unyielding as the iron mill wheels.

Every morning at 5:00 AM, he unlocked the heavy oak doors of Farooq Flour Mills. Under his quiet supervision, the new boys—former border strays who once slept in damp drainage culverts—learned the discipline of honest labor. Hunza taught them how to test grain dampness between their thumbs, how to stitch fifty-kilogram canvas sacks without wasting twine, and how to keep their ledgers clean down to the single peso.

By mid-autumn, the mill ran with flawless precision. Mr. Farooq spent his afternoons sitting in the sunshine outside the front office, smoking his wooden pipe and chatting with harbor merchants, his mind completely at ease.

On a warm Thursday afternoon, the primary grain delivery finished two hours ahead of schedule.

"Take the rest of the afternoon, Hunza," Mr. Farooq said, tapping his pipe against the stone wall with a warm smile. "The barges are empty, the floor is swept, and the ledger is signed. Go take your wife and daughter for a walk before the sun sets."

Hunza washed the flour dust from his forearms at the outdoor pump, pulled on his dark canvas jacket, and stepped out through the main gates.

Instead of taking his usual direct route along the canal, he took a pleasant detour through the Central District 4 Market—a sprawling, noisy maze of canvas awnings, wooden carts, and bustling crowds near the old chapel square. The air was rich with the sweet smell of roasted chestnuts, fresh pomegranates, dried figs, and boiling sugarcane tea.

Hunza walked slowly through the crowded aisles, his tall frame moving easily through the throng. He stopped at a fruit stall run by an old woman whose cart Hunza had once helped push out of the mud two years ago.

"Supervisor Hunza!" the old woman greeted warmly, wiping a red apple on her apron. "Look at these pomegranates—freshly unloaded from the river barges this morning. Sweet as honey."

"Good afternoon, Auntie," Hunza said, offering a respectful nod. "Give me three of the sweet ones, and a small basket of ripe figs for Ayesha."

He carefully counted out the exact coins from his wage pocket, handing them over with both hands. The woman packed the dark red fruit into a small woven reed basket, handing it to him with a blessing.

Hunza tucked the fruit basket under his broad arm and turned to walk down the narrow lane between the spice merchants and the ironmongers.

The market was densely packed. Shoppers jostled past one another, porter boys shouted for right of way, and street musicians played wooden flutes near the fountain.

Suddenly, a hooded figure wearing a frayed grey traveler's cloak rushed recklessly out of a narrow alleyway on the left. The stranger moved with frantic, erratic speed, glancing nervously over his shoulder as if pursued by unseen shadows.

Thump.

The stranger collided hard against Hunza’s broad, muscular shoulder. Hunza didn't budge an inch, but the impact sent the stranger staggering backward.

"Watch your step, friend," Hunza said calmly, reaching out a broad hand to steady the man by his elbow.

The stranger's hood shifted slightly in the collision. Beneath the dark cloth, Hunza caught a brief glimpse of a pale, sweat-streaked face, wide with absolute terror. The man didn't apologize. His eyes locked onto Hunza’s face for a fraction of a second—taking in his heavy supervisor vest and calm, steady posture.

Without a word, the stranger brushed past Hunza’s side, his hand making a swift, light contact with the deep side pocket of Hunza’s canvas jacket before disappearing into the dense market crowd toward the river docks.

Hunza frowned, turning his head to follow the stranger’s path, but the grey cloak was instantly swallowed by the throng of shoppers.

"A strange one," the spice merchant nearby grumbled, shaking his head. "People running through the lane as if the marshals are behind them."

Hunza adjusted his grip on the fruit basket. As he did, he felt a strange, heavy rectangular stiffness inside the left pocket of his canvas jacket—where only his handkerchief usually rested.

His brow furrowed. He stepped out of the busy walkway, pulling back into the quiet shade of a brick archway beside the baker’s oven.

Hunza reached his broad, calloused hand into his jacket pocket. His fingers closed around a thick, heavy envelope made of coarse, unbleached parchment.

He pulled it out.

The envelope was sealed with dark, reddish-black wax—stamped with a symbol Hunza had never seen: a coiled serpent wrapped around a broken anchor.

On the front of the envelope, written in sharp, heavy black ink with a slanting, aggressive hand, were four words:

MY DEAR RASHID

Hunza stood frozen beneath the brick archway, the noisy chatter of the market fading into a distant hum. The parchment felt heavy and cold in his palm, carrying a faint, acrid smell like burnt sulfur and old iron.

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His mind raced. Old Man Rashid’s name was known across every wharf and lane in District 4, but no ordinary courier would drop a wax-sealed letter into a stranger's pocket in a panicked rush. The frantic eyes of the hooded man, the mysterious dark wax, and the quiet warning Rashid had issued on the watchtower two nights ago all clicked together in Hunza’s chest like a turning lock.

Hunza slipped the sealed letter back deep into his pocket, his hand resting over the opening. He picked up his fruit basket, his posture instantly shifting from casual shopper back to watchful guardian, and set off briskly toward the Maritime Union watchhouse.

Hunza walked out of the crowded Central District 4 Market with a quick, measured stride, his left hand shoved deep inside his canvas jacket, holding the thick parchment tight against his side. The fruit basket hung under his right arm, the sweet yellow mangoes and dark red pomegranates resting gently against his ribs.

Despite the urgent pulse hammering in his chest, Hunza slowed his pace as he turned onto Calle Siete. He took two deep, deliberate breaths, forcing his broad shoulders to loosen and his jaw to unclench. He would not bring the chill of the market into his home.

He pushed open the green wooden door of his cottage.

The small living room was warm and quiet, filled with the comforting aroma of toasted sesame and brewing mint tea. Ayesha was sitting near the window, stitching a small hem on a soft flannel shirt. On the woven rug before her, little Enaya Amber was sitting up, happily bashing a wooden block against a woven tray.

The moment the latch clicked, Enaya’s dark eyes snapped toward the entrance. She let out a sharp, joyful squeal, her small hands waving in the air as she rocked forward onto her knees.

"Dada!" she cooed loudly.

Hunza set the fruit basket on the small wooden table, dropped his boots by the door, and immediately washed his hands at the basin. He knelt on the rug, opening his broad arms. Enaya scrambled straight into his chest with zero hesitation.

Hunza lifted her high into his broad lap, pressing his face gently into the soft crook of her neck, letting her tiny, warm hands pull at his shirt collar. He breathed in her sweet scent—warm milk and baby soap—feeling the tight knot in his stomach loosen for a brief, precious minute.

"You brought fruit?" Ayesha asked with a warm smile, setting down her needlework as she reached into the basket. "Ripe mangoes... Hunza, these are fresh."

"The old woman at the market had a fresh shipment from the river," Hunza said softly, keeping his voice light as he gently stroked Enaya’s soft dark hair.

Ayesha looked at him closely, her sharp eyes picking up the slight, lingering tension in the corner of his brow. She didn't press him in front of the baby; she simply reached out, her cool hand resting over his knee with deep, unspoken understanding.

"Slice a piece of mango before you go back out," she whispered gently. "You have that look in your eyes, Hunza. The look you get when you're carrying something heavy."

Hunza offered a quiet, tender smile, taking a slice of the golden fruit from her fingers. He held Enaya close for ten more minutes, letting her tiny fingers play with his calloused thumb, before placing her safely back on the rug beside her wooden toys.

"I have to see Master Rashid at the watchhouse," Hunza said, rising to his feet and pulling his jacket back on. "I will be back before the lanterns are lit."

"Go safely," Ayesha said quietly.

Hunza stepped back into the street, his left hand immediately dropping back into his jacket pocket. He walked briskly down the cobblestone incline toward the Maritime Union watchhouse at the edge of the harbor.

The watchhouse was quiet. Two harbor watchers sat near the lower gate, cleaning oil lamps and checking dock manifests. Hunza took the wooden stairs two at a time, stepping up to the second-floor observation room where Rashid usually spent his afternoons.

Young Leo, the harbor steward, was sitting at the oak desk, sorting through rolled maps and customs receipts.

"Supervisor Hunza," Leo said, looking up in surprise. "Looking for Master Rashid?"

"Is he upstairs?" Hunza asked, his deep voice serious.

Leo shook his head, dipping his quill into an inkwell. "No, he left early this morning. A message came down from the southern maritime office across the bay. He had to take the fast cutter down to Cavite to inspect the regional timber yards and meet with the senior bay union elders. He won't be back until late tomorrow evening at the earliest."

Hunza stood in the doorway, his broad frame casting a long shadow across the desk. Cavite. A full day's travel across the bay.

"Is everything alright at the mill?" Leo asked, noticing the flat, intense look in Hunza’s eyes.

"Everything is fine," Hunza said quietly, stepping back toward the stairwell. "Tell Master Rashid I came by when he returns."

Ten minutes later, Hunza pushed open the side pedestrian gate of Farooq Flour Mills.

The afternoon shift was drawing to a close. The heavy stone grinders upstairs were silent, and the young workers were sweeping the floor and stacking the last empty burlap bags.

In the quiet glass-paneled office overlooking the yard, Mr. Farooq sat at his desk, carefully balancing the weekly wage ledger.

"Hunza?" Farooq looked up in surprise as the door opened. "I thought I sent you home to your family."

Hunza closed the office door firmly behind him, pulling the small brass latch into place. He walked over to the desk, his face set in stone.

"Mr. Farooq," Hunza said quietly, "something happened in the market."

Farooq set his spectacles down on the open ledger, his sharp eyes instantly growing serious. "Sit down, Hunza. What happened?"

Hunza pulled his broad hand out of his jacket pocket and placed the thick, unbleached envelope flat on the wooden desk between them.

The dark red-and-black wax seal glimmered under the oil lamp—the coiled serpent wrapped around a broken anchor facing upward. On the front, the sharp, slanting black letters stood out starkly: MY DEAR RASHID.

Farooq stared at the envelope, his brow furrowing deeply. He reached out a finger, touching the heavy edge of the paper, but did not break the wax.

"Where did you get this?" Farooq asked in a low whisper.

"A man bumped into me in the fruit aisle," Hunza explained, his voice low and steady. "He was running as if a blade was at his neck. He slipped this into my pocket and vanished into the crowd toward the docks before I could turn around. I went straight to the watchhouse to give it to Master Rashid, but Leo said he departed for Cavite this morning."

Farooq leaned back in his leather chair, his fingers interlocked over his stomach as he stared at the red wax. "Cavite... yes, the union summit. He won't be back until tomorrow night."

Hunza leaned forward, his broad forearms resting on his knees. "Mr. Farooq... I do not feel good about this letter. The man who dropped it was terrified. And this seal... I have worked the docks for two years, and I have never seen this mark on any barge or trade ledger in District 4."

Mr. Farooq’s face grew solemn. He picked up the heavy envelope, holding it up to the lamp light, feeling the thickness of the paper.

"You have good instincts, Hunza," Farooq said softly, his voice heavy with quiet concern. "A man does not drop a wax-sealed message into a supervisor's pocket by accident. He knew who you were, or he knew you were close to Rashid. And if Rashid is across the bay in Cavite..."

Farooq looked into Hunza’s dark, unyielding eyes. "What do you want to do?"

Hunza’s jaw set into an iron line. "We do not break Master Rashid's seal. But we do not sit in the dark either. I will keep watch at the mill yard tonight myself, and tomorrow evening, I will be standing on the quay the moment Rashid's cutter lands from Cavite."