The heat hit her first, the way it always did, stepping off the jet bridge into air that felt solid compared to the thin, dry cold she'd left behind — thick, humid, alive with the specific smell of jet fuel and distant rain that had, since her very first flight out of this airport eleven years ago, always meant the same word to some deep, wordless part of her: home.
Afisa was waiting past customs, and the sight of her sister's face broke something open in Zarina's chest that she hadn't fully realized had been held tight since September — she crossed the last few meters at something close to a run, and they stood there, holding on to each other, both of them laughing and a little tearful, oblivious to the flow of other travelers navigating around them.
"You look tired," Afisa said, pullin
