Tasa persuades her brother Aksel to take a DNA test.
The test shows that Izil is not his biological father. His father is an Irish footballer he has never met. Aksel starts trying to find out more about that side of the family.
Tasa is already having a difficult time at home and at school. The result of the test does not affect her in the same way. Aksel starts asking questions about where he comes from. Tasa has other things to deal with.
That difference matters more as the story goes on.
Sirocco Letters
EXCERPTS FROM THE NOVEL
01
Tasa — I’m Here Too
Tasa sat. Her fork caught the light.
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“Mom, Dad… I might get the lead in Camelot.”
Lina blinked, then smiled—small, but genuine.
“That’s wonderful, sweetheart. I hope you get it.”
Izil nodded. Even smiled, briefly.
Tasa straightened; something cautious and bright flickered in her chest. So it’s possible, then. To be seen.
But the moment closed. Izil turned back to the TV. His fork slipped; the clatter echoed, ignored.
She tried again.
“How was your day, Dad?”
“Fine.” Flat. No pause. No glance.
She held her voice steady.
“You could at least look at me when I’m talking.”
He looked up, startled, defensive.
“What’s wrong, Tasa?”
She swallowed the shake in her breath.
“I’d like you to care. Everything’s about Aksel. I’m here too.”
His face tightened.
“That’s not fair,” he said. “You both matter.”
She almost laughed but it came out hollow.
“Really? What’s my favorite subject? What do I want after high school?”
He faltered.
“You’ve always had good grades. Isn’t that what matters?”
Her voice dropped.
“Only the grades matter. Got it.”
He frowned. “Watch your tone. You’ve got plenty to be grateful for.”
She set her fork down—slowly.
“I know. But I’d like to feel important too.”
02
Tasa — The Photograph in the Attic
Restlessness stirred again, drawing her up the narrow attic stairs before she’d even decided to move.
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The air changed as she climbed—dust, ink, and stillness meeting halfway. Light sliced through the slats, falling in crooked gold lines that caught on the corners of forgotten things.
Near the back wall, a chest waited—hinges rusted, lid heavy. She knelt, palms settling on the rough grain. When she lifted, wood groaned in protest, a sound long and aching.
Inside: letters curled with moisture, notebooks blurred by time, photographs softened at the edges. Words survived here, untouched. Her hands moved without aim, pulled by something older than choice.
A photograph stopped her.
A boy with red hair.
She blinked.
He looked like Aksel. Not entirely, but enough to unsettle—same tilt of the jaw, same guarded eyes, as if he were waiting to be read.
Turning it over, she found the faded scrawl: Liam, Lina, Duke 2000.
Her thumb slid across the ink, tracing each letter until her pulse quickened. Who is Liam? Why does he look like Aksel? Why was this hidden?
03
Aksel — The Choice
The Fulham media room smelled like burnt coffee and static. Reporters leaned forward over microphones, pretending patience.
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Aksel walked in without a handler, coat still damp from the morning rain. Cameras flashed once, then again.
He sat, hands flat on the table.
The first question came fast. “Aksel, the world’s been waiting. Which country will you represent internationally?”
