The fire hissed and snapped between them, throwing sparks that rose like tiny, frantic fireflies before vanishing into the cold night. Shadows stretched and trembled along the dirt, wavering with every gust of wind. Somewhere behind the crates, Janneh hummed softly—lost in her own little world, tracing spirals in the earth with a stick. She was only a few feet away, yet so far from the storm that brewed on the other side of the flames.
Habeel sat stiffly, arms folded in a stubborn tangle across his chest, cheeks puffed and flushed pink with irritation. He kept his gaze fixed on the darkness beyond the fire, refusing to acknowledge the sharpness in Ababeel's eyes.
"See?" he muttered, chin lifting with a tiny, almost childish pout. "You can share if you want. Maybe we can find a solution for you."
Ababeel scoffed—a small, cold sound that sliced through the warmth of the fire."As if. You and your kind are all the same—acting calm and gentle, but manipulating underneath."
Habeel's head snapped toward her. "What did I do?!"
"People like you kill people," she said, voice low, hard. "They bomb places. Hit women. Dominate the weak."
Habeel blinked—once, twice—as if her words were physical blows. He pointed at his own chest, incredulous."Did I ever hit you?"
"No," she admitted reluctantly, chin lifting higher. "But your book says so."
Habeel groaned into his hands. "Did you ever bother reading it before throwing accusations at me?"
She didn't answer. Just stared—stubborn, wounded, unyielding.
He exhaled, the frustration settling heavily in his shoulders. "Look, I don't know what you're getting at. But if you tell me what's bothering you, I can help. If you share." His voice gentled, losing its edge. "And first, our book doesn't tell men to hit women. It says 'strike lightl,' in a specific circumstance. Symbolic. And most scholars say don't even do that."
His throat tightened. His eyes flickered like the flames—hurt, tired, desperate to be understood.
"And those who kill in the name of jihad?" His eyebrow jumped in frustration. "They twist the word. True jihad is by God's command, not personal anger. And even in war—children, women, elders, anyone who surrenders—we're forbidden to harm them. Forbidden to loot. Forbidden to destroy." His voice cracked. "Those people are not my faith. They are criminals wearing it as a mask."
He met her gaze, something raw shimmering beneath his lashes.
"Good and bad exist everywhere. If someone hurt you, you can't stain everyone with the same colour."
Then—softly, painfully, quietly—"Am I scary to you?"
She stiffened. "No—"
"Do you think I'll kill you?"
"No."
"Will I take advantage of you?"
She hesitated. Her lips parted—but no sound came out.
Habeel's voice trembled with something old and bruised."Did I not safeguard you? Did I not protect you? Did I not prove myself?"
"Habeel—"
"Why do I have to keep proving myself?" His volume rose—not in anger, but agony. He grabbed the pistol lying near the crates and slid it toward her across the dirt, the metal scraping like a scream."Here. If you really believe I'm manipulative or dangerous—shoot. Save the child from me."
"Baba?" Janneh peeked over a crate, confused, frightened.
Ababeel's breath hitched in her throat. Her legs refused to move. Her fingers tremble, but she did not reach for the gun.
Her voice emerged cracked and soft."You talk like you're… holy. Above everything. Like your belief makes you superior."
Her eyes glistened.
"I've seen what your kind did to people like me. Families destroyed. Women are punished for nothing. Homes burned. Girls silenced. Don't tell me I haven't seen."
Habeel stared at the fire, its glow reflected in his wounded eyes."I'm not them," he whispered.
"But you talk like them," she said quietly. "Explaining rules. Quoting things. Sounding like those men who preached and hurt at the same time."
His jaw tightened hard enough to tremble.
"I talk because that's all I have," he said, voice soft but shaking at the edges. "I have no army. No country. No power. I have nothing except my words… and my belief. And you twist even that into something dirty."
Silence pressed down on them—thick, suffocating.
The fire crackled gently, as if afraid to interrupt.
Janneh slowly returned to drawing, sensing the heaviness but not understanding it.
Finally, Ababeel scrubbed her eyes with the heel of her palm, her voice barely a whisper.
"I don't hate you. I hate… what I've seen. What I've lived. What I fear."
"And I'm paying for it," Habeel murmured, eyes darkening. "Even though I didn't do it."
Her breath quivered."I know."
They didn't speak again.
They sat in the flicker of the flames—two people carved by different wounds, shaped by different fears—trying, failing, trying again not to shatter under the weight of the past neither asked for.
And through it all, the fire burned softly between them…the only thing warm in a night full of ghosts.