And for the first time that night, she smiled. Not a happy smile. A tired one. The smile of someone who has been stepping hard for so long that she forgot she could stop.
"Don't," Layla whispered.
Layla pulled her back from the edge—not with force, but with the quiet gravity of someone who refused to let go. thmyl- albnt tqwlh ana khayfh ant btdws jamd bnt...
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.
The word was soft now. Almost tender. A plea wrapped in the shape of a name. And for the first time that night, she smiled
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.
Mariam paused. For one eternal second, she turned her head. Her eyes were wet, but her jaw was set like concrete. The smile of someone who has been stepping
(I'm scared.)