Whispers to the Sky

Amal glanced at her mother's face. Her eyes were red-rimmed; she seemed to have aged several years. Her lower lip trembled.

She turned to Marwah and noticed how her hands quivered on Yusuf's shoulder. A streak of unease slowly settled in Amal’s heart.

Aminah took Mira and Yusuf to her room. Marwah left for her house—she needed to hurry to the hospital.

Amal sat frozen in place, memory playing on a loop.

A green-eyed teenage boy was trying to catch her as she ran through the park.

“Arish,” she called out, giggling, “catch me!”

He smiled in return—two dimples peeking through his cheeks.

“Run fast, Amal.”

They ran for a while until he caught up and lifted her into his arms.

“Hannah’s brother is her hero, and you’re mine,” she whispered, like sharing a secret.

“I’ll protect you, Amal,” he whispered back, gently tugging her ponytail.

“Your brother will protect you.”

The flashback faded. Her eyes turned instinctively toward the window. She looked up at the sky.

“Arish...” The name slipped from her lips like a soft plea.

***

Marwah slowly entered her house.

The walls—shades of cream—the decorations warm-toned. This was the home she and Hassan, her husband, had built with care. Each vase, every corner, held memories of their life together.

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

She glanced around softly, then hurried to her room. She picked up a bag and packed a few daily necessities—clothes, dried food—before leaving the driveway.

Perhaps this would be one of the last times she saw her home.

As she drove to the hospital, she passed debris—crushed homes, broken buildings that once stood in quiet majesty. People hurried through the chaos. Some cried; others dug through rubble to rescue loved ones.

The sun moved on. The breeze still flowed.

But lives had paused—

some had rewound.

Marwah stepped into the hospital. Immediately, she was surrounded—shouts, cries, pleas, prayers, and the flurry of doctors and nurses in motion.

She changed quickly into her work clothes and moved toward the trauma ward.

A school was bombed...

A residential block collapsed...

Everywhere her gaze landed, there were people—crying, bleeding. The stench of burnt flesh hung heavy in the air.

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and walked forward—steady. Her hands no longer trembled.

The first patient: a child with a broken limb. She set the bone and applied a cast.

The next: a man with an open wound, blood pooling. She controlled the bleeding, stitched the gash, and moved on.

Then came a baby—barely breathing. The mother cradled her close, her own head wrapped in bloodied gauze. But it was not her injury that made her cry. It was the trembling breaths of the small life, her life in her hands.

Marwah quickly assessed the child, moving with urgency. Five minutes passed.

Then she looked up and met the mother’s eyes.

Not a word exchanged.

None was needed.

The baby had stopped breathing.

A dream lost.

A love buried beneath grief.

A soul returned to the sky.

Another child of the sky.