Some homes are not built on stone,
but on shy glances and silent promises.
Since Amira had taken them in, the house carried the discreet scent of an unexpected refuge.
For Nahia and her little sister, each room still felt unfamiliar, yet already filled with quiet gratitude woven into the gestures of daily life.
Amira was almost never there.
She only returned on certain weekends, for a few hours stolen from the palace's constant whirlwind.
But even in her absence, the place felt imbued with her gentle presence: a plate set on the table, a coat hanging by the door, a subtle, real fragrance of care.
That Saturday, the air was soft, almost melancholic.
Nahia, seated by the open window with her knees drawn to her chest, watched the distant passersby.
Her sister was drawing on the floor, deeply focused, tongue between her teeth.
When the front door opened gently, Nahia's heart leapt.
Amira entered, a small bag in hand, her face tired, but her smile — however brief — instantly warmed the room.
"Are you both doing well?" she asked softly as she set her things down.
"Yes, Amira," Nahia replied with a timid smile.
The young woman ran a gentle hand through the younger girl's hair, who looked up at her with shining eyes.
The silence that followed was soft, filled with gratitude and unspoken words.
But already, urgency pulsed through Amira's movements.
She barely sat down, took a deep breath, then turned to Nahia:
"I have to leave again quickly. There are… serious things happening at the palace.
The Sheikha can't handle it all alone, so I have to be there."
She paused, visibly torn between duty and guilt.
Nahia clenched her hands on her knees.
She wanted to ask her to stay — just a little longer — but she knew she had no right to.
Taking a shaky breath, she dared:
"Amira… I wanted to ask you something."
Amira froze, her eyes on her.
"Go on."
"I'd like to look for work.
Not to leave here… but to help. To be useful.
So you don't have to take care of us all alone."
Her voice cracked slightly.
She had never wanted to be a burden.
Amira remained silent for a few seconds.
Then, with unexpected tenderness, she reached out and touched Nahia's shoulder.
"What you want to do is noble, Nahia.
And I will help you. I promise.
But… not just yet."
She lowered her eyes, as if the words cost her.
"The palace is in turmoil. It's unstable. Sometimes even dangerous.
I'd rather you stay safe… at least for a while."
Nahia nodded, holding back emotion.
"I understand."
Amira stood, brushed a few stray hairs from the younger one's head, then put her coat back on.
"I'll come back as soon as I can. I promise you."
She gave them one last look, filled with quiet affection, then closed the door behind her, carrying away with her all the chaos of the outside world.
When silence returned, a tear slid down Nahia's cheek.
Not of sadness.
More of a worried gratitude — that feeling of being at a crossroads.
She looked at her sister, absorbed in her drawing, and knew deep down she didn't have the right to stay still.
Not if she wanted to offer her the best.
---
The days that followed stretched in a strange blend of softness and impatience.
Nahia kept the silent promise she'd made to Amira: she wouldn't go out. Not yet.
She had sworn it to herself.
Not until Amira gave her permission.
She owed her that. And owed it to herself, too.
The house was peaceful, lulled by the murmur of the wind and the rustling of turning pages.
Her sister spent her days drawing or inventing stories in a low voice, a notebook on her lap, her brow furrowed in concentration.
Sometimes, Nahia caught her giggling softly to herself, and her heart tightened with tenderness.
She was no longer a child in the eyes of the world, but in her gaze, in her clumsy movements, something fragile and pure still remained.
Something Nahia wanted to protect.
Each morning, she tended to the house: swept the small courtyard, polished the furniture, mended worn clothes.
Simple gestures, tirelessly repeated, giving time a shape — a bearable weight.
Often, she sat beside her sister, watching her draw.
She admired the way she still marveled at little things: a bird on the railing, rain dancing on the windows, the golden light of dusk.
These suspended moments were precious.
Fragile bubbles she wanted to guard with all her strength.
---
The following weekend, Amira came by — briefly, like a shooting star.
Her face looked even more tired, her features drawn with silent worry.
But she brought them some treats: bread, fruit, a box of sweet pastries.
"I think about you," she said simply as she set down the basket.
And those words, that gesture, warmed Nahia more than any speech could.
After she left, her sister unpacked the sweets with childlike excitement, laughing as she discovered the odd shapes and scattered sugar across the table.
Nahia watched her, heart both light and heavy.
There was still room for joy. Even in waiting.
Even in this suspended time.
That evening, they sat side by side on the old sofa, a blanket on their knees, sharing the pastries while gazing at the stars through the open window.
Her sister fell asleep, head on her shoulder, a peaceful smile on her lips.
Nahia remained still for a long time, listening to her calm breathing.
She thought about the future.
About her promise.
About what she wanted to build — for two.
She also thought of Amira, that strong, discreet woman who carried so much without ever speaking of it.
In the peaceful darkness, Nahia made a silent vow.
A vow of strength, of patience, of courage.
The world could keep turning without them for now.
Here, in this shelter built of waiting and unspoken love, they were already building something essential:
A home.
A family.
And perhaps, somewhere down the line… a future.