The therapist followed silently as Habeel pushed the door open, his shoulders rigid, every step heavy with purpose. The air shifted instantly—the warm, cosy room vanished, replaced by a haze of dust and smoke that hung like a living thing. The scent of metal and burnt earth clawed at his throat, searing memory into his senses.
Ahead, the broken floor bore witness to two bodies—one small, one tall. The therapist's chest tightened, a familiar ache twisting deep. He had seen this before—the fragile, fleeting intersection of courage and loss—and his heart ached with recognition.
Ababeel's scarf was stained dark, still looped around her arm. Habeel's hand hovered above hers, trembling, fingers straining to bridge the impossible distance. Even here, even now, he sought to shield her, to reach a fragment of safety that slipped through his grasp.
A shadow shifted, and Commander Ahmed knelt beside Janneh. The little girl trembled violently, clutching the rabbit plushie to her chest like a talisman against the chaos. Ahmed's arms enveloped her, unyielding yet gentle, absorbing her small body as though she were the last living thing worth guarding. Her tears soaked his uniform, but he made no motion to wipe them; he held her tighter, a silent vow that no harm would touch her under his watch.
Janneh walked beside the coffin, her tiny hand resting on the wood, a rabbit plushie tucked into her other arm. She kept looking at the message pinned to the top in trembling handwriting: "For Janneh — my little daughter not by blood, but by heart." Ahmed's jaw tightened as he escorted them to Habeel's home.
She clung there, unwilling to let go, as if by grasping it she could tether him back to life. Her small frame shook with sobs, pressed against the national colours that draped the coffin, a fabric heavy with loss and unspoken devotion.
A woman opened the door — the mother whose heart had shattered before she even reached for her son. She collapsed over the coffin, her cry echoing like something ancient and unbearable. Ahmed looked away, blinking hard.
Habeel's mother reached and scooped Janneh into her embrace, drawing her close, rocking her, whispering solace into her ears, too young to comprehend the depth of grief. Janneh nestled against her chest, the rabbit plushie held in one hand, the other wrapped protectively around the coffin, until the mother's warmth and steady presence coaxed her trembling heart into something like trust again.
Ahmed rose, jaw tight, shoulders squared, guiding the fragile procession to Habeel's home. Inside, another scene of quiet devastation awaited. Ababeel's body was carried gently into the house by two women. Her sister remained frozen in the doorway, hands over her mouth, breathless until grief finally tore through, collapsing her nearly to the floor. A hairbrush was placed beside Ababeel, a silent token of her ordinary life, a cruel contrast to the sudden stillness that now claimed her.
The therapist's eyes burned with empathy, and an agony pressed into every line of his face. He had seen too many like this, and yet each story struck anew. The world around him blurred at the edges, folding into memory and sorrow. A wooden desk appeared, scarred and timeworn, holding an immense leather-bound book. Its pages shimmered with names written in impossible ink—the ledger no mortal hand could craft.
Therapist slammed the Book of Accounts shut, the echo reverberating through the quiet house, leaving only the faint imprint of footsteps. Small, deliberate, heading toward the garden—where fate waited, patient and unyielding, ready to gather those brave enough to meet it.