On the coldest day of winter, a woman in rags stood on the rooftop of the tallest building. From afar she looked almost magical; up close, the dark clouds above made her soul seem eerie.
Sahira Zaydan — once the perfect girl in school, the one everyone admired — now begged death to give her peace. She had even called her boyfriend, just so he could see what he had turned her into.
But would he really regret it?
A weak voice spoke her name. "Sahira." Just a whisper, yet it shook her soul.
"Amma…" Sahira gasped, terrified and ashamed. She was the culprit behind this woman's sorrow.
Her mother's voice, thin but sharp, answered:
"I never thought you were this weak. Sahira, begging death for peace? You were my pride — yet my pride is so fragile."
Her chest burned as her mother's words echoed. A sob cut through the wind, shattering the last fragments of her courage. She could not face her. She had done everything wrong.
And she knew — deep inside — that seeking peace in death was foolish.
Still, she closed her eyes. She jumped.
Her blood wrote the story of a foolish girl.
Death came. But what it brought was not peace. Even death was puzzled.