The fire crackled softly in the therapy room's memory—its glow alive in Ababeel's eyes as she stared past the present, into the past she was retelling.
The young man sitting beside her took a sip of his own tea and asked gently,
"Where did they go?"
Ababeel set her empty cup on the table. "I really didn't know," she admitted. "But then I found Janneh's sketch—her and Habeel near the river. Probably, he gave her the job to tell me."
The therapist-looking man chuckled. "Which she failed miserably."
A small smile touched her lips. "Miserably."
She leaned back, letting the memory pull her under.
A few hours later, the forest rustled—and out came Habeel and Janneh, triumphant, holding fish bigger than Janneh's arms.
"LOOK!" Habeel announced, grinning like he'd conquered a kingdom.
"We have dinner!"
He lifted a fish proudly toward Ababeel.
And she—froze.
Then:
"NOPE—NOPE—NO—GET THAT THING AWAY FROM ME!" she shrieked, sprinting around the campfire like she'd seen a demon.
Habeel stood, utterly stunned.
"…huh?"
"…What did I DO??"
Janneh blinked… then her eyes lit up with wicked mischief.
She slowly turned… slowly lifted the fish in her tiny hands…
And then ran after Ababeel, waving it like a weapon.
"AAAAHHH—JANNEH STOP—STOP—STOP!"
Janneh giggled like a gremlin set loose.
Meanwhile, Habeel just rubbed his temples, flustered… then suddenly smiled softly at the chaos.
His people.
His small, weird, ridiculous people.
With a sigh, he started setting up the fire pit.
"Alright, gals," he called, flipping the fish onto the pan with a dramatic pout,
"Come eat before you scream yourselves to death!"
When Ababeel finally sat, she planted herself a safe distance away, arms crossed, and cheeks puffed out.
"I'm JUST—keeping them away from me," she muttered.
Habeel squinted at her.
"…Is our dwarf afraid of fiiiiiish… phobia??"
She nodded miserably.
He blinked. "…But you can eat it?"
She nodded again.
Habeel shook his head slowly. "This is… wow."
Janneh, meanwhile, sketched furiously, tongue sticking out.
When she shoved the drawing into Habeel's face, he squinted—
Then broke into loud, uncontrollable laughter.
"Oh my GOD! ABABEEL—Why am I drawn as a fish?! Why am I hanging from a tree?! Why—WHY is the fish ALSO me?!"
He wheezed.
"She thinks I died and came back as dinner!"
Janneh proudly nodded.
"Everything is NOT Habeel!" he assured her, still laughing. "These fish are NOT me! I didn't kill myself!"
He pulled Janneh beside him, settling her close.
"There are certain animals we can eat," he explained warmly, poking the fire. "The ones God allows. And if they're sacrificed properly in His name, then it's okay."
Janneh listened with wide eyes.
"But not cats or dogs," he added firmly. "What you did to the cat—very, VERY wrong. You took revenge because it scratched your rabbit plushie."
Janneh lowered her head. "Cat… bad?"
"No," he corrected gently. "Cat not bad. Scratch bad."
She nodded.
"And do you know why we sacrifice?" Habeel continued softly. A long time ago, Prophet Abraham was told to sacrifice what he loved most. He took his son. But God replaced him with a sheep. So in Eid-ul-Adha, we sacrifice to remember how faith saved what he loved."
Janneh mouthed the words slowly, trying to understand.
Her tiny "oh…" made Ababeel's heart pinch.
They ate in a comfortable, quiet place after that.
Ababeel munched stubbornly, cheeks puffed, refusing to look at either of them because they now knew her greatest absurd weakness.
Later, she handed Habeel a cup of coffee.
Janneh played in the dirt nearby, drawing spirals and rabbits and maybe one fish-Habeel.
Habeel watched the child for a moment. Then looked at Ababeel.
He took a slow sip.
"It looks like you want to say something."
She scowled. "You talk as if you're high and mighty."
His eyebrow arched. "Talking to a kid about my religion makes me high and mighty?"
Ababeel crossed her arms. "No. The tone. The way you… explain things. Like you're above us."
A muscle ticked in Habeel's jaw.
"You think I'm preaching?" he asked quietly.
"I think you're acting like you're perfect," she said. "And many people from your religion—many of them—use that same voice. That 'I know better' voice. And they are often wrong. Dangerous. Controlling."
The fire crackled.
Habeel inhaled deeply.
"So you think I'm like them," he said softly. "That I'm the same as the men who twisted faith."
She didn't answer.
He looked toward Janneh—tiny, trusting, safe with him.
Then back at Ababeel.
"I don't teach her to control."
His voice was low now, steady.
"I teach her not to be alone in a world that eats children."
Her breath caught.
He continued:
"If God is the only comfort she gets… then I'll teach her gently. Like this."
A small gesture toward the child drawing circles in the mud.
"Not like the men who broke you."
Ababeel stared at him—no anger, no sarcasm left.
Just truth.
And the fire crackled between them, warm and soft, carrying the weight of two wounded people who didn't quite know how to trust…
But somehow kept choosing each other anyway.
"Still," she muttered half-heartedly, trying to lighten the mood,
"Your voice is annoying."
He snorted. "Your face is annoying."
"Grow up."
"You first."
And despite the tension, despite the pain, something in their bruised chests softened—
just a little.