Shadows Beyond Mirath

As the days passed, the city began to soften around Samora, though it never truly felt like home. She woke each morning with the same ache in her chest, longing for the garden and the gentle voices of Mirath. Some nights she dreamt of the river, its water glinting in the sun, and woke with tears on her cheeks. It was only at school, when she saw Xior waiting near the gate, that she felt the heavy loneliness lift just a little.

Xior had a way of making the busy world seem quieter. He listened to Samora's stories, nodded thoughtfully at her drawings, and always seemed to know when she needed company and when she wanted silence. Their friendship was a small comfort, a patch of sunlight in the gray city.

One afternoon, after the last lesson had ended and the other children hurried away, Samora and Xior stayed behind in the empty classroom. utside, the sky glowed a bright, cloudless blue, yet a gentle chill drifted in through the tall windows. Samora picked up her books slowly, her heart hoping to hold onto these small, peaceful moments just a little longer.

"Do you want to sit outside for a while?" Xior asked, his voice gentle.

Samora nodded. They walked together to the edge of the schoolyard, where an old tree bent its branches over a patch of grass. The city's noise faded here, and the air smelled faintly of earth. Samora settled beneath the tree and opened her notebook, flipping to a clean page. She glanced at Xior, who was pulling colored chalks from his pocket.

She began to draw, her pencil moving in slow circles. The river from Mirath appeared on her page, its banks curving softly, wildflowers blooming along the water's edge, and mango trees drooping under the weight of golden fruit. She drew the sparrows too, darting and swooping above the water, free and unafraid.

Xior watched her, a thoughtful look in his eyes. "That's the river by the mango grove, isn't it?" he said softly.

Samora looked up, surprised. "You recognize it?"

He smiled. "I grew up in Mirath, too. We lived near the river. my father's house was just past the old well."

For a moment, Samora could not speak. The city seemed to fall away, and she saw the winding path, the familiar trees, the sunlight glinting on water. "I thought I was the only one from Mirath," she whispered.

Xior's smile turned wistful. "We left last year, just before the soldiers came. I miss it every day."

Samora's heart swelled with a bittersweet joy she hadn't felt in so long. She wished she could ask Xior about the old women's stories, about the sweetness of mangoes still warm from the sun, about whether he also missed the river's quiet song at dawn. But instead she only smiled, comforted by the silent understanding between them. For the first time since leaving home, she felt the heavy loneliness ease. Someone else carried the same memories, and knew the longing that lived quietly in her heart.

They sat together in the soft afternoon light, sharing stories of their village. Samora told him about her mother's garden, how the flowers always seemed to bloom brightest in the shade. Xior talked about his little sister, who used to chase dragonflies along the riverbank. The sun slipped lower in the sky, painting their faces with gold.

But as the shadows lengthened across the schoolyard, Xior fell silent, his eyes drifting often to the clock above the classroom door. He packed his things in a hurry. Samora watched him, sensing a distance she hadn't felt before.

She gathered her courage as they walked toward the gate. The city was glowing with evening light, the sky turning soft gold. "Xior," she asked softly, "is there someone you miss in Mirath?"

He hesitated, then nodded, his voice gentler than she had ever heard it. "Yes. Her name is Hadena. She's still there. Before I left, we promised to write to each other, to wait and hope for peace. Every day I think of her, and sometimes it hurts so much, but I have to believe we'll see each other again."

Samora felt her heart twist, understanding now the sadness she sometimes saw in Xior's eyes. She tried to smile, though a quiet ache settled in her own chest. "She must be very special," Samora said.

"She is," Xior replied, his gaze distant, "She's the bravest person I know."

They walked in silence for a while, each lost in their own memories. Samora understood then that, even though Xior shared her ache for home, his heart belonged to someone else, a promise and a hope waiting for him in the distance.

That evening, as Samora sat alone in her small room, her aunt knocked softly and handed her a thin, crumpled envelope. The handwriting on the front made Samora's breath catch. It was her mother's, gentle and familiar.

With trembling hands, Samora opened the letter and read slowly, her eyes filling with tears. The words were like sunlight after a storm; The war has ended. The soldiers have gone. The river runs clear again. We are safe. Come home when you can.

Relief and hope flooded through her. For so long she had carried the weight of worry, not knowing if she would ever see Mirath again. Now, the world felt brighter and lighter, as if a door had finally opened.

She pressed the letter to her heart and closed her eyes, letting tears run freely down her cheeks. She thought of her family, the garden she missed, and the friends she had found and lost. She thought of Xior and Hadena, and of the way hope could carry people even when they were far apart.

That night, as she drifted to sleep, Samora held the letter close. The ache of missing home was still there, but now it was softened by hope, a promise that one day soon, she would return to Mirath, where her story had begun.