She was walking toward the edge.
Layla's voice cracked on the last syllable. She wasn't scared of the height. She wasn't scared of the drop. She was scared of her . Of Mariam. Of what Mariam had become in the three months since her older brother disappeared—taken by men in plain clothes, no charges, no phone call, just a black van and the screech of tires. thmyl- albnt tqwlh ana khayfh ant btdws jamd bnt...
(I'm scared.)
They sank to the gravel together, knees scraping, arms wrapped around each other. Mariam's shoulders shook. Layla held her tighter. She was walking toward the edge
Layla reached out. Her fingers brushed the sleeve of Mariam's worn denim jacket—the one with the embroidered flower on the cuff, the one their mother had made before the cancer took her. She wasn't scared of the drop
The word was soft now. Almost tender. A plea wrapped in the shape of a name.
The word hung in the humid air like the first drop of rain before a storm.