Mahadnaqa Alle

The silence was the first thing Asma noticed. It wasn't the usual quiet of their small home, filled with the gentle rustle of her mother’s movements or the soft hum of her voice as she described the world outside. This silence was vast, an emptiness that pressed in on her, suffocating. She called out, “Hooyo? Hooyo?” but only the echo of her own voice answered, a hollow sound that sent a shiver down her spine. Her mother, Aisha, was always there, a constant presence, a warm hand guiding her, a soothing voice painting pictures in her mind. Today, she was gone. Fear, cold and sharp, began to prickle at Asma’s heart.

“Habaryar? Hooyo ma aragtay?” Her voice, usually so steady, trembled as she called out to the neighbor, Sacdiya, her words tumbling out in a rush. Sacdiya, a woman whose presence was as familiar and comforting as the scent of baking bread, was their closest neighbour and a second mother to Asma in many ways.

Sacdiya’s voice, laced with concern, floated back. “Asma, what is it? Your voice is so loud today.”