"Here, Zahra — don't forget your lunch."
Mrs Goodtree pressed the folded brown paper bag into her hands, her weathered face softening with a knowing smile. Zahra dipped her chin, already half-turned toward the door.
"Thanks, Mrs Goodtree."
"Hurry now, or you'll be late."
Mrs Goodtree placed her hands on her hips and tilted her head. She watched her go for a moment longer than necessary. Not a child anymore, she thought. A young woman. It hardly seemed possible. She had known Zahra since she was barely a toddler, she was a new foster mother when the authorities dumped Zahra on the steps of her suburban home. Back then Zahra had nothing but a name, a suitcase full of odd bits and a small tin box.
The authorities had never returned.
That had suited her just fine.
She loved Zahra from the very first night, fiercely, as though she already belonged to her. Foster children had come and gone over the years, but Zahra had always been her constant — gentle with the younger ones, quiet but fiercely determined. Lately, though, there had only been the two of them. Mrs Goodtree hadn't taken another child in years. Not when she knew what was coming.
She quickly chased the thought away.
Zahra was a good girl. Stubborn, hot-headed, impossible at times — but good. The only thing that ever truly tested her patience was school. Without fail, she would find Zahra waitressing or singing in all sorts of restaurants and clubs, places no girl her age had any business being. Zahra was obsessed with working and earning money, not the worst quality to have, but she had no intention of getting any education.
Zahra called it ambition. She called it recklessness.
"You have to go to school, Zahra."
"But why? I don't have time! I'm meant to be doing something else."
"You're young. You have all the time in the world."
"No, I don't. I'm meant for something more."
It always ended the same way.
There was no point in arguing with her. Once Zahra made up her mind, it was made up. Still, Mrs Goodtree never saw defiance in her — only that same restless fire she remembered in herself as a girl, when dreams were louder than reason. Except this time, it frightened her.
Every week, she slipped coins and notes into the ceramic jar above the cupboard — money ready for the fines. Zahra was an extremely clever girl; she read books that most people took weeks to complete in a matter of days. She taught herself more at home, but she still wanted Zahra to go to school. She still wanted her to make friends and live an everyday life.
Then Zahra had grown past school age. Now for two days a week, she would go to a class at a local college. Reluctantly, her foster daughter agreed. It was a compromise they both made for the love they shared.
She would let her have two jobs if she would only commit to this course and get her school qualifications.
Two days a week. Just enough to keep some sense of normalcy alive.
Normal, she thought bitterly. Was that even possible?
The fines may have stopped, but the money still went in the jar.
She let out a slow breath.
Zahra had always been drawn to stories. Not fairytales or princesses like the others — no. She'd been obsessed with one tale above all else: The Forgotten Oasis. A mythical sanctuary hidden within endless desert sands, said to hold secrets no mortal should know. Especially in this day and age, when the Gods had become more myth than belief.
And now… Duel Monsters.
A card game that had crept into their world like prophecy made tangible. It was everywhere. And Zahra was far too invested in it for coincidence. She never played it herself, but watched it with a look in her eyes that couldn't be described.
The door let out the telltale chimes as it opened, and she snapped back to reality.
"Bye, sweetheart!" she called after.
"Bye! See you later!" Zahra's voice faded as she ran down the path.
Mrs Goodtree moved to the kitchen window, watching her until she vanished from sight. She always ran. Always. At least she wore shoes now.
For a moment, her smile faltered.
Then she turned back to the sink, to the mundanity of dishes and routine — as though destiny wasn't already circling them both. She was almost done when she heard her landline ringing from the living room.
****
Zahra burst down the street, breath sharp in her lungs as the skyline of the city rose to greet her. It was a short walk into town from the suburban house she called home, an even shorter run. As the din of the hustling city got louder and louder.
She smiled, clutching tightly onto the straps of her backpack.
The diner sat on the city's edge, a small, worn yellow-and-blue sanctuary tucked between tired shops. It wasn't glamorous, but it was hers. The staff were kind, the customers familiar, and for once in her life, she felt... useful.
The bell pealed happily to announce her arrival.
"Wow, you're keen. Your shift doesn't start for another half an hour", James remarked, looking at his watch.
"Well, hello to you, too," Zahra grinned. "Miss me already?"
James was her manager and very clearly a working man. His hands were large and rough from manual labour, and splotches of fat dotted his apron. He'd been in the kitchen.
Busy day, she noted. James hated the heat of the fryers and ovens; the steam messed with his curls.
"I got bored at home," she added lightly. "Thought I'd come in early."
A lie, but one she told so often it became the slightest of stings.
But it still stung.
She was here early because she should be at college and needed to leave then so Mrs Goodtree wouldn't suspect anything. For some reason today, the thought of her usual meander around the park wouldn't calm the growing storm in her mind. She needed to focus.
She wanted to work.
She slipped past him and pushed open the staff door, the familiar creak echoing behind her. It was through one door and straight in another to get to the locker room, where she placed her bag down and pulled out her uniform, guilt settling like a quiet weight on her shoulders.
I'm sorry, Mrs Goodtree...
She knew she was breaking promises. But something far stronger than logic kept pulling her here — a quiet, burning insistence in the centre of her chest. It wasn't rebellion. It wasn't laziness.
It felt like instinct. A burning feeling from her very core seemed to guide her, no one else would understand if her excuse for lying was some feeling she got.
She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. Ridiculous.
Still, that certainty remained. Still, she cursed herself for lying so much to everyone she cared about.
Changing quickly, she reached for her work boots. Those non-slip, extra-grip, heavy-as-shit boots, and she recoiled at the sight of them. Suffocating. Prison-like. A complete violation of everything her feet valued.
She hated them with a passion.
But the diner wasn't a place for bare feet — not with sizzling oil, broken glass, and slippery tiles waiting to punish even the smallest mistake. She'd tried it once and learned very quickly how unforgiving a kitchen could be.
With a sigh, she slipped off her beloved modified daps — soles carefully cut away so she could still feel the ground beneath her — and forced her feet into the suffocating work boots instead. They felt wrong. Too tight. Too distant from the world below. As a child, she was always scolded for not wearing shoes; they made her feet sweat, and somehow she felt claustrophobic, like she couldn't breathe. These daps were ideal for her; they were sturdy enough to hold their shape after she cut through the sole. Now she could look as if she were wearing shoes, with the comfort of her feet touching the ground. Unless she was a complete buffoon, no one would notice the difference. As soon as she took them off, they went straight into her backpack.
Straightening, Zahra flexed her ankles experimentally. Uncomfortable, yes. But necessary. And once the rush began, once plates clattered, and orders flew, and feet flew with them, she barely had time to notice she was wearing them at all.