Lullabies And Lies

When Amal was seven, she would sit with her grandmother in the late evenings, listening to tales of old. She’d perch cross-legged on the Persian carpet her grandfather had once received as a gift. The maroon rug, threaded with dull golden patterns, seemed to hold stories of its own—a silent witness to the years that had quietly flown by.

Her grandmother sat in an ebony rocking chair that creaked gently as it moved near the fireplace. She would knit slowly while the flames crackled and flickered. The golden-rimmed glasses resting on her nose only added to her quiet elegance. And her voice—soft and gentle—reverberated calmly through the room, wrapping Amal in the coziness of a lullaby spun from memory and love.

"Amal, the world is a clever, clever place," her voice would sound on the verge of breaking, "and it's as cruel as it is clever."

"How so, Grandma?" she would ask in confusion.

"It lies beautifully—so beautifully that you begin to reject the truth. It will choose the context of your story and paint you as the villain or the hero, all for its own benefit."

"Why would it do that, Grandma?" Amal asked curiously.

"The Children of the Sky have been corrupted, Amal," she said softly, gently setting the knitting needles aside. "The hunger for power is ever unending."

She stood, ruffled Amal's hair, and walked out of the room—leaving her with all sorts of questions.

***

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Her lashes slowly fluttered open. She yawned softly and sat up, her eyes drifting toward the morning sky.

"Morning, Sky," she murmured with a cheerful smile, then got up to freshen herself.

It was a fine Sunday morning—an azure sky stretched above, dotted with fluffy white clouds, and birds flitted past like brushstrokes across a canvas. It looked like something straight out of a painting.

Amal quickly finished her breakfast; she had promised her younger cousin Mira a trip to the nearby park. Tying a green ribbon into her hair and slipping on her favorite sunflower headband, she dashed out of the house with a lightness in her step.

Mira lived just a few streets away from Amal’s house. By the time Amal arrived, Mira was already sitting on the doorstep. Her long curly hair was tied into two ponytails, and her face rested in her small hands, a little pout tugging at her lips.

"You're late," she whined softly.

Amal quickly sat down in front of her, clasping her ears in apology. Mira turned her face away with a dramatic huff. A smile crept onto Amal’s face, but she hid it, not wanting to further upset her.

From her pocket, she pulled out a few candies and held them out. Mira reached for them with feigned reluctance, though the sparkle in her eyes gave her away—she was happy to see Amal.

"Is Uncle home?"

"He went to pick Mommy up."

"Oops, he must be waiting for me to come get you."

"It's alright. Dad knows you oversleep often," Mira said with a casual shrug.

"Gosh, Mira... you're only harsh on me," Amal pouted.

"I love Arish more," Mira grinned before standing up.

"We both do," Amal murmured, gently nodding as she took Mira’s hand and they walked out together.