The registration hall smelled of perfume, money, and ambition.
Glittering posters of past winners lined the walls—faces that had become celebrities overnight. Amina clutched her notebook to her chest, her hands clammy.
She almost turned back at the door.
Women in sparkling dresses glided across the polished floor, their heels clicking like they owned the world. Men in sleek suits leaned against the counters, laughing, their entourages carrying bottled water and bags of gifts. The air was thick with confidence —and mockery for anyone who didn't belong.
And Amina—didn't belong.
Her clothes were plain, faded from too many washes. The only makeup she wore was borrowed lipstick from her co-worker at the diner. She felt like a shadow among diamonds.
"Next!" the registrar barked.
Her throat tightened. She almost whispered forgot it and walked away. Who am I kidding? I'm just a dropout from a broken home...
Then she thought of her mother's labored breathing last night. Of her sister's hungry eyes. Of her crumpled money snatched from her hands by her father.
Her jaw set.
She stepped forward. " I'm here to audition."
The registrar barely glanced at her, shoving a form her way. "Name. Age. Song choice."
Her hand trembled as she wrote, but once the pen hit the paper, her resolve grew steadier. By the time she handed it back, she was breathing evenly again.
Hours later, she stood on stage. The bright lights blinded her, a thousand whisper in the audience pricked her skin. Contestants before her had belted out songs with trained voices, dazzling smiles, and confident twirls.
She held the microphone with both hands, terrified it might slip. Her voice cracked on the first note, and a few people snickered. Her chest burned with shame.
No. Not this time.
She closed her eyes, blocking out the laughter. In her mind, she was back in the tiny kitchen, humming while washing dishes, singing to her mother, to herself, to the pain no else saw.
The next note came stronger. The one after, sharper. Untill her voice filled the hall—not flawless, not polished but raw.
Raw enough to cut through the silence.
When she finished, there was no thunderous applause, only murmurs. A few judges scribbled unimpressed. One yawned.
But at the end of the row, a man with cold eyes leaned forward ever so slightly. His gaze lingered, the unreadable, as if he discovered something no one else noticed.
Amina bowed her head, heart racing. She didn't know if she had passed or failed. All she knew was this: she had sung. Truly sung.
And for the first time in her life, the world had listened.