Morning had risen over Amira's small house, flooding the room with a soft, warm light.
Nahia was the first to wake. Her gaze wandered for a moment over the cracked walls before settling on Amaya, still deeply asleep.
The scent of warm bread and strong coffee soon filled the air.
The door creaked. Amira entered, carrying a simple tray.
— Come, child. Let's eat, then talk.
Nahia sat up and followed the woman into the small kitchen.
Amira invited her to sit down. Their faces were serious, tense, like two warriors before battle.
Nahia lowered her eyes, nervously fidgeting with the edge of her shawl.
— You don't have to talk, if you don't want to, said Amira gently.
But Nahia took a deep breath.
She had to say it.
She had to lift this weight from her chest.
— Before… she began in a trembling voice, we lived in Italy. In our mother's country.
Her fingers clenched around her cup.
— My father was from this village… but he had left these lands long ago. He fell in love with my mother over there.
A fleeting, painful smile brushed her lips.
— I was twelve. Amaya, five. We were… happy.
Amira listened in silence, her face tense with silent compassion.
— That day… Nahia's voice broke for a moment. We were celebrating my success on an important exam. It was a great day.
She gritted her teeth, holding back tears.
— We all went out… I remember my mother's laughter. My father's hand on my shoulder. Then…
She closed her eyes.
— A truck. It was going too fast. It didn't see them.
A stifled sob escaped her.
Amira gently placed her hand on Nahia's.
A simple gesture, but it made the girl tremble.
— They died instantly.
Silence fell over the room.
Even the street outside the walls seemed to have gone quiet, listening to the tragedy.
Nahia continued after a few seconds, her voice harder now:
— The social services didn't know what to do with us. So they contacted the only family on my father's side...
She looked up, her eyes filled with cold hatred.
His brother. Our uncle.
Amira nodded slowly.
— He said he would take care of us. So they sent us here.
A bitter laugh escaped Nahia's lips.
— From the moment we arrived, Rokaya, his wife, hated us.
Her gaze went blank, lost in memories she'd rather forget.
— She told everyone in the village I was a witch. That I brought misfortune. That I was cursed.
She clenched her fists so tightly that her nails dug into her palms.
— They believed her. All of them.
Amira paled slightly.
Nahia took a deep breath, fighting the silent rage.
— She tortured us… psychologically. Every day. Every night.
Amira whispered:
— And your uncle?
— He watched.
Nahia's voice was no more than a hoarse whisper.
He never said a word. Not once.
An unbearable silence fell between them, heavy with horror and injustice.
Amira slowly withdrew her hand, visibly shaken.
Nahia lifted her chin, proud despite everything.
— We endured it all.
She swallowed her pain like poison.
— But one day…
Her eyes darkened.
— One day, Rokaya tried to hit Amaya again. And I dared to stop her.
She gave a bitter smile.
— They threw us out. Like dogs.
She paused, staring at Amira with icy determination.
— We have nowhere else to go.
Silence.
Then Amira finally spoke, her voice grave and slow:
— You have a place here, for now. But you'll need to be careful. Very careful.
Nahia slowly nodded.
She had no other choice.
But this time, she silently swore that nothing and no one would break them — not without them fighting back in their own way.