Chapter 2
Ayla
“Go hide,” Mama whispers.
I crouch in the closet.
She presses a kiss to my forehead and closes the door.
The dark wraps around me like a cool blanket.
The pounding doesn’t stop.
Boom. Boom.
Like fists on my chest.
A woman’s voice cuts through the walls—sharp, fast, angry.
She’s speaking Baba’s language.
I haven’t seen Baba in a long time. Not since the yelling started. Not since Mama cried in the kitchen and told me not to ask.
I know when Mama puts me in the closet, it’s to be safe.
She says it’s a game. A secret.
But the woman is loud.
And Mama sounds scared.
So I peek.
I don’t see mama.
Just a woman, brown hair, angry eyes.
She disappears.
A thud sounds.
A thud—like when something heavy falls and no one picks it back up.
I freeze.
My heart is loud. Too loud. I press my hand over my mouth. Something wet splashes. I don’t know what it is.
I don’t want to know.
Another thud.
Harder.
The walls shake.
Mama makes a sound. Not a word. Not a scream. Just a sound.
I crawl deeper into the closet. My knees hit shoes. Coats.
I pull them over me like they can hide me better.
More noise.
Fast. Angry.
Too much.
Then—Nothing.
No voices, no footsteps. I can only hear my heart and my breathing.
I stop breathing.
I don’t know how long I wait.
My legs hurt. My arms fall asleep. The house feels wrong.
Too quiet.
Like it’s holding its breath with me.
I open the door.
Slow.
I stay low, like Baba taught me. On my hands and knees. The kitchen light is on. Mama is on the floor. Her hair is spread out funny. Her arm is bent the wrong way.
I crawl faster.
My hand slips in something warm and wet.
Red.
I pull it back fast and rub it on my pants.
“Mama?” I whisper.
I shake her shoulder.
Nothing.
“Mama,” I say again, louder.
She doesn’t move. I shake her harder.
“Wake up.”
My chest hurts. My eyes burn. I cry. Loud now.
I can’t stop.
Baba comes in.
He scoops me up so fast my feet leave the floor.
“What happened?” he asks.
His voice sounds strange. Tight.
I point.
I tell him about the woman. Her voice. Her hair.
The way Mama sounded scared.
Baba’s eyes go dark.
Empty.
He smooths my hair back. Kisses my forehead.
Soft.
“I’m taking you to Hala Mira,” he says.
That makes me feel a little better. I like my aunt. She makes sweet bread.
“But Mama—” I say.
He holds me tighter.
“I’ll take care of everything,” he says. “I’ll come get you soon.”
I nod because he’s Baba.
Because he says it like it’s true.
But I don’t stop looking at Mama until the door closes behind us.
***
Two weeks later
New clothes.
A hairbrush with pearls on the handle.
White walls.
Big windows and too many mirrors.
Baba kneels in front of me and says, “This is your home now, Tavsan .”
I nod, clutching my stuffed bunny tighter. I don’t ask if Mama is coming.
I already know.
He takes my hand and leads me through the halls. They smell like lemon soap and something old. At the top of the stairs, a man watches us. His eyes are dark. His jaw clenches when he sees me.
Baba smiles. “This is Gabriel, your brother.”
I step forward, small.
“Hi,” I say.
He doesn’t answer.
Instead he says something sharp to in Baba’s language and walks off.
Baba exhales.
“Let me take you back to your room, you can play until supper.”