The fire crackled faintly in the makeshift fireplace.
The flickering light painted trembling shadows on the peeling walls, as if even the past was desperately clinging to them. The dry wood burned slowly, like their memories—fading piece by piece, ember by ember.
Sitting against the wall with her legs pulled close to her chest, Nahia stared at the flames without truly seeing them.
Beside her, Amaya—wrapped in a blanket a bit too large—watched the orange sparks rise and vanish, hypnotized.
They had never known this village before the tragedy. It was their father's land, the place of his childhood, of forgotten memories hidden between the hills and dusty paths.
Their mother was from Italy, and that's where they had grown up—cradled by the smell of coffee, the golden laughter, and the gentle songs of their early days.
This remote hamlet, they had only come to it after.
After the silence.
After the void left by their disappearance.
— Nahia... murmured Amaya, her voice almost timid.
— Hmm? her older sister replied, not taking her eyes off the fire.
— Do you think… they're watching us?
A breath.
A simple question, but heavy with meaning.
Nahia slowly turned her head toward her.
Amaya was eighteen now, but there was still a trace of childhood in her eyes—that fragile softness she had never quite lost. Despite the years. Despite the loss.
— I think so, Nahia answered softly. Every day.
Amaya pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders, as if those words alone were enough to warm her a little.
— Sometimes... I try to remember their faces. Their voices. But it's all blurry… like a dream too far away.
Nahia felt that familiar ache rise again—that knot in her throat she'd learned to swallow over the years.
She had been twelve when their parents were taken.
Just old enough to understand.
Too young to survive it without breaking.
Since that day, she had learned to stay silent.
To be strong.
For Amaya.
— It's normal, she whispered. You were only five.
Amaya nodded slowly, her gaze still lost in the fire.
Yet despite the years, despite the blur, some memories refused to disappear.
— I still get flashes… smells… sounds… Mom singing while cooking dinner… Dad carrying me on his shoulders, running around the living room… It's blurry, but… it makes me feel warm inside.
Nahia smiled—sadly, tenderly.
— I remember our last evening all together. Mom made her favorite gratin, the one with way too much cheese. Dad turned on the old radio—you know, the one that always crackled. He was imitating Italian singers with his awful accent. Mom kept laughing… she said he was crazy. But she danced with him anyway.
Her gaze clouded with tears she didn't let fall.
Amaya closed her eyes for a moment, as if to seal the image in her memory.
A long silence settled between them.
But it was a soft silence. A comforting one.
The kind born from shared memories.
Then, in a voice barely audible, Amaya asked:
— Do you think they'd be proud of us?
— I'm sure of it, Nahia answered with certainty.
She reached out her hand toward her sister.
A simple gesture, but filled with everything they had never said aloud.
Amaya took it without hesitation.
And in that silent contact, there was everything: pain, love, and the promise to keep going—no matter what.
— We grew up without them, Nahia murmured. But we never left them behind. They're here, Amaya. In every step we take. Every time we move forward. They live in us.
The fire crackled softly, as if in agreement.
Outside, night had fully settled in—cold and black.
The wind slipped through the cracks of the poorly sealed windows, moaning against the walls.
But inside this broken room, there was something stronger than the cold.
There was a bond.
A love that time had not erased.
A pain turned into strength.
A sisterhood forged by loss.
And a fragile, but living, light burning in the hearts of two young women still learning how to breathe through absence.