The city was loud and alive, full of smells, colors, and endless motion. Morning sunlight spilled across the streets, glinting off car windows and puddles left by last night's rain. Mara loved it here the hum of people, the chatter of neighbors, and the comforting routine of her life with her parents.
Her parents doted on her, and in their small apartment, Mara was just a child like any other. She ran through the small courtyard, chasing pigeons and laughing when they took flight. She scraped her knees, stubbed her toes, and fell into puddles, always to be lifted and comforted by her mother's gentle hands.
Her father would sit on the balcony, sketching tiny animals on scraps of paper while Mara tried to copy him, mangling shapes but never losing her joy. "Patience, Mara," he said, ruffling her hair. "Patience and care, that's how we make things last."
Her apartment was small but cozy, filled with warm colors, stacks of books, and plants that her mother insisted needed more sunlight. Every morning, her father would sit at the tiny kitchen table with a cup of coffee, sketching animals on scraps of paper, while Mara tried to copy them, her pencil hopping wildly across the page.
"You're going to get ink all over your fingers," he said, chuckling as Mara frowned in concentration.
"I can't help it! Look, I made a dog!" she said proudly, holding up the paper. The figure looked more like a wobbly blob than a dog, but her father smiled and ruffled her hair.
"It's perfect," he said. "It has spirit."
Her mother called from the living room, her voice soft but firm. "Mara, come on! Breakfast before it gets cold." Mara scampered over, giggling as her socks slid across the wooden floor. She loved these small, ordinary moments: pancakes with extra syrup, warm milk, the smell of her mother's perfume mixing with the aroma of breakfast.
At school, Mara was like any other child. She laughed with her friends, played tag in the courtyard, and listened eagerly to her teachers. She liked reading and drawing, and sometimes she would come home talking excitedly about a story she had read or a game she had played with her friends.
"Mom, Dad, today we pretended to be explorers," she said one afternoon, dropping her backpack by the door. "We found a treasure under the old tree in the playground! I was the captain!"
Her mother smiled, brushing a strand of hair from Mara's face. "That sounds wonderful, sweetheart. Did you share the treasure?"
Mara giggled. "Of course! I gave everyone a piece of chocolate I had in my pocket. Captain Mara is generous!"
Her father laughed, shaking his head. "Just don't get carried away. You don't want to start a chocolate shortage in the classroom."
Evenings were quiet and comforting. Her parents would tell stories, often of faraway lands or funny incidents from when they were children. Sometimes Mara would sit on her father's lap, tracing shapes in the air, and listen to the rhythmic scratch of his pen on paper as he finished his sketches.
"Do you think people in other cities live like we do?" Mara asked one night, staring out at the city lights from their apartment window.
Her mother smiled, brushing her fingers through Mara's hair. "Every city is different, love, but the important thing is that you are safe, and you are loved. That's what matters most."
"Even if the sky is dark or the wind is loud?" Mara asked.
"Especially then," her mother replied. "Love is the light that keeps you safe, even when the world is noisy or frightening."
Her father added, "And don't forget to be kind to others. You never know what someone else is facing."
Mara nodded solemnly, as if committing these words to memory. For her, life was simple, warm, and safe a routine of school, friends, laughter, and the comforting presence of her parents. She thought of herself as just Mara, an ordinary girl with ordinary joys, ordinary fears, and an ordinary life.
Her friends sometimes teased her for being a bit too organized or for reading too much, but she laughed along with them. Life felt normal, predictable, and full of small, happy moments.
Even as she grew older, ten, eleven, twelve years old, the city life held her in its rhythm. She learned to ride her bike faster, to help her mother bake bread, to memorize poems and recite them perfectly at school. Every night she fell asleep in her cozy bed, listening to the hum of traffic outside and the soft murmurs of her parents talking, feeling completely safe.Her mother always told her before bed, "Mara you are one special child, never forget that", and she would seal it with a peck to the forehead.
For Mara, the world was ordinary. Her parents were ordinary. Her friends were ordinary. And she herself well, she was just a regular girl, full of laughter and curiosity, never imagining that one day, all of this would change.