The hallway was bathed in a heavy silence at the end of the day. Nahia stopped in front of Amira's half-open bedroom door. A soft glow filtered through the curtains, wrapping the room in a familiar warmth. The gentle scent of musk and soap lingered in the air, like a tender and persistent memory.
Amira was on her knees on her prayer rug, finishing her invocations. When she looked up at them, she understood immediately. This wasn't an ordinary visit.
— Come in, my daughters… What's going on?
Nahia exchanged a silent glance with Amaya. Then she stepped forward, throat tight. The words struggled to come out, stifled by emotion.
— We need to talk to you… about something, she began hesitantly.
Amira nodded, attentive as always.
— A few weeks ago, we received a letter. From our aunt, Giulietta Ferrano. Mom's younger sister. She had entrusted it to our uncle Ahmed… and he looked for us to give it to us.
Her voice trembled. Every word seemed to weigh a ton.
— Giulietta came all the way to Mazar. She wanted to see us. To know us. She told us about Mom, about their childhood… She said she'd been searching for us for a long time. And she offered to take us to live with her. In Italy. For a new life… a real life.
The silence became denser, almost palpable. Amira brought a hand to her mouth, shaken.
— My God…
— She didn't force anything on us. She just asked us to think about it. Two weeks. Then she left, to prepare the process.
— And today… she called back. Uncle Ahmed finally sent her our documents. He didn't want to at first, but he gave in. So now, it all depends on our decision.
Amira took a few seconds to respond. Then she stood up slowly, approached them, and held them in an embrace full of infinite tenderness. A rare embrace. Maternal.
— My girls… you must go. This kind of opportunity… it's a door that God opens for you. You deserve to know something else. A future. A light. I love you with all my heart… But I am only a passage. She… she can be a continuation.
Amaya cried softly, nestled against her shoulder.
— But Nahia doesn't want to go, she whispered.
— Amaya, my love… It's not a no. It's fear. She's carried everything. Too soon. She's been a sister, a mother, a wall, a shield… But Nahia, my darling, you also have the right to feel light. To exist for yourself. To love, to dream… You have the right to live.
Nahia kept her eyes down. Her silence weighed as much as the years of pain. Memories overwhelmed her—endless nights, dull fear, suffocating loneliness. And now, this possibility… too bright to be real.
— Think about it, my loves. But don't wait too long. Happiness rarely knocks twice.
---
The days that followed passed like a tightrope stretched between two worlds.
Each morning carried a hint of hope.
Each night closed in the heavy silence of an unmade decision.
Amaya, driven by the will to believe, refused to give up. From morning to night, she followed Nahia step by step. In the shaded courtyards, beneath the scorching archways, in the corridors where the echo of their footsteps seemed to whisper uncertainty.
She repeated, pleaded. Always the same words. Always with the same intensity.
— Say yes, Nahia. Please… say yes.
Sometimes, Nahia only responded with a blank stare. A sigh.
But Amaya persisted, even when her voice trembled.
— Don't you think we've suffered enough here? Don't you think we deserve something else? A real chance, just one… Do it for yourself. For me.
One evening, as the sky burned with the setting sun, Amaya knelt before her, hands clasped like a prayer.
— I can't go without you. I don't want to… I need you there with me. You're all I have left. If you stay, I'll stay. But I'm scared we'll let our only chance slip away.
Nahia closed her eyes. Her heart felt caught between two worlds.
She didn't want to run away. She didn't want to turn her back on everything she had endured.
She had learned to survive here. To take the blows. To stay silent. To become stronger than the pain.
— You can go, she murmured, without looking at her. You still have dreams. You can build something there. You don't need me.
But Amaya shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks.
— You think I want that life without you? You've always protected me… All I want is for us to live. But together.
And the days went on like that.
Amaya insisted. Nahia listened in silence, sometimes retreating into the shadows.
A week passed. Full of sighs, silences, and unspoken prayers.
Then, at the dawn of a new day, Nahia broke the silence.
— Okay. We'll go.
Amaya held her breath.
— You… you're saying yes?
Nahia nodded. A sad smile brushed her lips.
— Yes. But first… we have to say goodbye to Uncle Ahmed. Despite Rokaya… he's the one who took us in. Without him, we would have been separated. He deserves a farewell.
Amaya's heart tightened.
— I don't want to go back. I never want to see that woman again.
— I understand. You don't have to come. I'm the eldest. It's my role.
Amaya stood there, frozen, fists clenched, throat tight with a fury she could no longer contain. Then suddenly, she burst out:
— And why is it always you, huh? Why is it always you who has to carry everything? It's not fair, Nahia! I can go too. I can face things too. I'm not a little girl anymore!
Nahia looked at her for a long moment. Amaya was trembling. But in her eyes shone that vibrant strength she herself had thought extinguished. A soft rebellion. A will to exist beyond the shadows.
— I know, she finally whispered. I know you're strong. But precisely… let me carry it a little longer. Just a little. Then, you'll be able to run. Far. Free.
She opened her arms. Amaya threw herself into them, heart shattered, tears burning.
— Promise me we'll be together again soon? That you'll come back?
— I promise. And this time, it'll be to leave. Together.
They stayed there for a long time, holding each other, as if that moment could suspend the world around them. A fragile calm in the turmoil.
Later, Nahia went to see Amira and told her she would go to the village the next day.
What she didn't know yet…
Was that this trip — this simple farewell — would change far more than just their departure.