Samora had always lived beneath the soft shade of her parents' fears. In the sunlit village of Mirath, where the river sang and the air smelled of mango blossom, she wandered like a gentle ghost. Her big eyes were shining, long dark hair trailing behind her, small frame darting among the trees and blooms. Her world was no bigger than the garden walls, and for a long time, that was enough.
Her parents, proud and caring, gave her all their love. Still, they feared what lay beyond the village. The laughter of strangers, the news brought by visitors from other places, and the far-off signs of war made them worry for their daughter. They kept Samora close, dressing her in soft silks and feeding her sweet fruits, teaching her to read poems and sing old songs. She smiled often, but sometimes, when the wind rustled the leaves just so, she wondered what lay beyond the iron gate at the end of the path.
Samora's days passed in gentle repetition. She woke to the song of the river, helped her mother gather flowers, and listened to the wise old women tell stories in the shade. In the afternoons, she liked to slip away to her favorite corner of the garden. There was an old bench under a tree covered in purple flowers, and she would sit there quietly, drawing the birds that came to visit. Sometimes, she gazed up at the sky and dreamed of being one of the little sparrows, free to fly wherever she wanted. She often wondered if the world outside was truly as frightening as her parents said, or if maybe there was somewhere beyond the garden where she truly belonged.
One golden afternoon, as Samora traced her finger along the garden wall, her mother appeared on the veranda. Her eyes were red. "Samora," she called softly, "come inside, darling." The worry in her voice was sharp as flint.
Inside the house, Samora's father stood by the window, staring at the smoke rising across the distant fields. She followed his gaze, trying to make sense of the darkness blotting the horizon. "There's trouble in the city," he said, voice tight. "The soldiers are coming closer."
Samora's heart fluttered in her chest. She had never seen war, only heard stories whispered by the women at the well. War was something that happened to other people, in faraway places. Not here, not in her peaceful home.
Her parents spoke in hushed voices that night, their words a blur of fear and urgency. Samora listened from the staircase, clutching her doll, her mind swirling with worry. When her mother came to tuck her into bed, she held Samora's hand a little too tightly. "Everything will be alright, my love," she whispered. Samora wasn't so sure.
The next morning, a carriage waited outside the gate, and the horses stamped and snorted in the cool air. Her parents had packed a small trunk with her things, including her favorite books, a few dresses, and a silver locket. Her mother placed the locket in Samora's hand and held it tightly. "You must go, Samora," she whispered, her eyes shining with tears. "You will be safe in the city. We will come for you when it is all over."
Samora wanted to say no. She wanted to hold on to her mother and beg to stay. But when she saw the worry in her parents' eyes, she could not speak. Instead, she hugged them both tightly, breathing in the comforting scent of jasmine and warm earth. Then, as the sun rose over the rooftops, she climbed into the carriage and began her journey.
The road out of Mirath was long and winding, lined with fields where farmers worked with their heads bowed. Samora pressed her face to the window, watching the only world she had ever known fade into the distance. The garden walls and blue river slowly faded from view until they became just memories.
Her heart ached, but she was too frightened for tears.
When the carriage finally stopped, she found herself in a city of stone and smoke, where the air buzzed with noise and the faces of strangers pressed in on every side. The house where she would stay was smaller and colder. It belonged to a relative, and everything felt strange, from the voices to the smells. She missed her garden, the soft songs she used to hear, and the safe feeling of her old home.
Her new guardians tried to be kind, but they were busy and distracted. Samora spent most of her time in her small room, staring out at the gray city, tracing the lines of the locket with trembling fingers.
The next morning, she put on her new uniform and walked to her new school. The halls were filled with laughter and loud voices. Wherever she went, people watched her. Some were curious, some were unkind, and some did not care at all. Samora felt small and alone as she held her satchel close to her chest.
At recess, a group of boys stood around her. They were tall and loud, and their eyes were full of something unkind. Their words sounded strange, and their laughter was harsh. "Look at the new girl! What is she hiding behind those big eyes?" one of them called out as he pulled at her hair. Samora stepped back, her cheeks burning. For the first time in her life, she felt truly alone
She was about to cry when a voice rose above the noise. "Leave her alone." A boy stepped forward. He was tall and confident, with steady, calm eyes. The other boys hesitated, then walked away, still muttering under their breath.
He turned to Samora, offering a gentle smile. "Don't mind them. My name's Xior. I'll be here if you need me."
Samora stared at him, relief flooding her chest. She nodded, the words stuck in her throat. For the first time since leaving home, she felt a fragile sense of safety.
That night, as she lay in bed under an unfamiliar ceiling, Samora held the silver locket and thought about home. The garden felt distant now, a place she could only reach in her dreams. Yet she wondered if, in this strange new place, she might find a small piece of it once again.