“~We were still here~”
443 Words
The sky was pale blue when Maryam opened her eyes.
For a moment, she forgot where she was.
The cool breeze.
The soft chatter of birds.
The way Amma’s dupatta lay across her feet like a blanket.
It felt almost normal.
Almost. Until she sat up — and remembered.
Below, in the empty rooms, the morning had arrived with nothing to offer.
No plate breaking sound in kitchen.
No slippers shuffling near the gas stove.
No cigarette smoke to be away from.
The silence wasn’t heavy anymore.
It was hollow. Like the house had given up speaking.
Amma didn’t cry. Still.
She walked down from the roof, washed her face, and tied her hair back tightly. Told the three of us to eat the breakfast.. we didn’t know from where that breakfast came..
Then, without a word, she picked up a broom.
The floor was dusty.
The corners full of cobwebs.
Even the window panes looked like they hadn’t been touched in years — even though it had only been two days.
She started sweeping.
Not because it would fix anything.
But because it was the only thing she could do.
One room. Then the next.
No sighs. No complaints.
Just motion.
Just doing.
Farah joined her quietly.
She didn’t say “Amma, let me help.”
She didn’t need to.
She started picking up the dishes that were left there. Tayyba gathered the leftover cushions. Maryam folded the dupattas they had used as pillows the night before.
They weren’t cleaning the house.
They were trying to clean the ache.
Around noon, Amma sat down on the lone charpai. Her hands were rough. Her back ached. But her voice, when she finally spoke, was steady.
“We’ll get through this. Slowly. One thing at a time.”
The girls nodded.
There was no plan.
No big money.
No idea what came next.
But somehow, just hearing Amma say it made it feel possible.
Later that day, the girls sat there, Amma taking a nap as she didn't slept whole night.
As he left, the house felt strangely quiet.
Not peaceful.
Not yet.
Just... empty.
No light. No fan. No money.
But also, for the first time:
no fear.
Amma woke up ,sat on the floor, her scarf slipping to one side, eyes dry but tired.
Farah sat beside her, holding her hand.
Tayyba and Maryam curled close, holding on not just to their mother —
but to something stronger than walls and furniture.
Hope.
Love.
Survival.
In the silence, something was born.
Something fierce.
They had nothing now.
But they had each other.
And that was a start.
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