Hope

Wrapped in the glow of dawn,

or twinkling among the stars on the deepest nights,

or gifted to the earth in raindrops that mourn and heal its wounds—

hope is there.

Hope is when the birds leave each morning and return with full bellies,

when you wake each day with just enough breath to dream of something better.

That’s Amal for you.

That’s hope.

And that is me.

I’m Amal, residing in the land of hope —

and we are the Children of the Sky.

We breathe, for the sky is vast.

We dream, for the sky holds us up.

And we rise, because the sky is the limit.

Grandma used to say,

"Amal, as long as there is sky, as long as you breathe, there’s always hope."

I remember gazing into her soft eyes, tracing the gentle lines time had left on her face, listening to the mellowness of her voice, and feeling the warmth of her hug. She smelled of ancient memories and jasmine—melancholy, with just the right touch of sweetness.

I asked her,

"What about my brother, Grandma?"

She held my hands gently, squeezing them softly.

"He is one of the Children of the Sky."

So here we are again—

the Children of the Sky.

And Amal means hope.

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Her green eyes mirrored the flicker of the candlelight as she gently sketched a new kite design. The soft scraping of graphite against yellow paper stopped at last, and a faint smile bloomed on her lips. She gave the drawing one final look before gently blowing away the remnants of the eraser.

Slipping the page beneath one of her schoolbooks, she tiptoed toward her bed, brown curls cascading down her shoulders like quiet waves. After the candle’s flame vanished, she gazed at the sky.

She always spoke to the sky—

to her brother, Arish—

hoping that perhaps the other Children of the Sky had their own counterparts here on earth,

who whispered to them tales of the soil.

"Sleep, Amal."

It was as if she finally heard the sky reply.

A soft smile returned to her lips. She pulled the covers up to her chin and closed her eyes.

She had won again—

she had coaxed a reply from the sky.

Someplace far, yet near, the sky turned a shade of crimson, and the earth paused in grief.

The sky opened its arms once more, welcoming its beloved children.

He wrapped them in gossamer gauze, adorned them with flower wreaths, and held them close—

embracing their wounds, their fears, their tears.

Then, gently, he filled them with light.

And the ritual was complete.

They were now Children of the Sky.

And once a child of the sky... always a child of the sky.

Yet he concealed this cyclic ritual from Amal—

for she was hope,

and he hoped that hope could remain just that: pure, untouched.

Amal slept soundly in the warmth of her covers,

while destiny moved—covertly, but surely—

with something in mind.

Perhaps a purpose.

Perhaps… a test.