A Wave Before the Dust

The devastation unfolded slowly—painfully so.

Not like the movies, where a missile hits, a building explodes, and flames rise in seconds.

When you live through it, it’s different.

You feel every tremor in the ground.

You hear the building protests as it crumbles.

You catch the sound of rubble falling—bit by bit.

The screams. The cries.

The thunder of jets overhead.

The deafening booms that follow.

Each sound is separate. Each one lingers.

Your body remembers them all.

That’s how you know it’s real.

That’s how you know—

this is not a scene.

This is your life.

***

Amal could still count the days on her fingers—

yet it felt as if she had been living them for lifetimes.

Mira no longer stiffened at loud noises.

Her green eyes no longer drowned in tears.

Just yesterday, Amal had seen her coax a frightened cat into calmness—

the way her fingers softly ran through the cat's hair like they held the gentleness of the world.. gentleness that the world itself seemed to have forgotten.

There was still joy in Mira’s eyes—

but it was a quieter kind.

A mature kind of joy.

Amal didn’t quite understand what that meant—

but she could feel the difference.

They had passed through eight cities.

Stolen story; please report.

Eight cities that were now eight ruins.

There were no cities left.

***

Amal remembered the second city.

Grief there wasn’t loud—it was carved into the citizens’ bones.

She had been woken by the booms—

Mira clung to Aminah, shaking.

Yusuf stood by the window.

His gaze lingered northward, toward their city.

Her city.

Now a ghost, breathing through its own ruin.

They left at dawn, heading south.

It was in the third city that Amal felt death not just exist—but glide as if an eagle on a hunt.

The cottage they stayed in was small, simple.

A few steps away stood a school.

That morning, a child had smiled and waved at her as he entered.

Families were taking shelter there.

Then came the sound.

Missiles.

Several struck the school.

Smoke rose as the building crumbled.

Amal watched people run toward the rubble—

not away from it.

And she found herself walking too, slowly at first.

She saw it—

a small hand reaching out of the ruin, covered in dust.

She ran.

Fell to her knees.

Started digging. Desperate.

Two women joined her.

It was the same boy.

The one who had waved.

A metal rod had pierced his chest.

His eyes were closed.

Blood covered her hands.

And she stared at him—

with eyes full of quiet emptiness.

***

Amal remembered a passage from one of Mira's storybooks.

Zaytara—

it bled, and in doing so, it nourished the soil.

From its people, a quiet purity spread—

touching hearts across the world

like a feather’s brush.

The closer the people were

to the Children of the Sky,

the more their hearts quivered.

Zaytara,

the land that held the sky.

The land that bled.

The land whose ruins were revered.

Zaytara.

And the Children of the Sky.