The sun in Morocco didn't just shine; it embraced the soul. For eight-year-old Mohsin, the world was a canvas of golden dust and the smell of fresh mint tea wafting from the nearby cafes. Holding his father's hand felt like holding the universe itself—solid, warm, and safe.
"Stay close, Mohsin," his father whispered with a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "The city is busy today."
Mohsin nodded, but his attention was already elsewhere. A flash of brilliant, snowy white danced in the air. A butterfly. It was unlike any he had ever seen, its wings glowing like polished pearls against the deep blue sky. To a child, it looked like a piece of a fallen star.
Without thinking, Mohsin let go of the hand that protected him. He chased the white flutter, his laughter echoing through the crowded street. He didn't hear the screeching of tires. He didn't see the massive shadow of the truck looming over him like a mechanical beast.
"Mohsin! No!"
A violent shove sent him flying toward the pavement. The world spun. Dust filled his lungs as he hit the hard ground. For a second, there was silence—a heavy, suffocating silence.
Then came the crash. The sound of metal crushing bone.
Mohsin looked up, his vision blurred by tears. The white butterfly was still there, hovering peacefully over a body lying in a pool of growing crimson. His father's body. The hand that had held his just moments ago was now still, pale, and cold.
In that moment, the sun stopped shining for Mohsin. The boy who loved butterflies died on that street, and in his place, a shadow was born.