Indhaha Cusub

The morning light, usually a gentle caress on Asma’s face, felt different today. A strange stillness hung in the air, a silence that pressed in on her ears, amplifying the usual sounds of their small home. Each day, her mother, Aisha, was the first stirring, the soft rustle of fabric, the clinking of a pot, the low hum of a song as she prepared their simple breakfast. But today, there was only the quiet. Asma called out, her voice, usually so clear and bright, a touch uncertain. "Hooyo? Hooyo, ma joogtaa?" No answer. She called again, a little louder, a tremor of unease beginning to snake through her. "Hooyo, meeshaan joogaa!" Still nothing.

A knot of worry tightened in her chest. Her mother never missed their morning routine. Never. Even with Asma’s blindness, Aisha’s presence was a constant, a beacon of warmth and security. Asma reached out, her fingers finding the familiar, smooth wood of her mother's bedside table. Empty. She moved her hands across the worn blanket of the bed. Cold. A prickle of fear, sharp and sudden, made her breath catch.

"Habaryar!" Asma’s voice, now laced with a rising panic, echoed through the small dwelling and out into the quiet village street. "Habaryar, hooyo ma aragtay?" She knew her neighbor, Sacdiya, lived close by. Sacdiya, with her kind heart and ever-present smile, would surely know.