Ryaan's pov

Before the sky fell, I was just a boy.

We lived in a small house near the sea. White walls, blue windows. Mama said it looked like it belonged in a painting. Baba planted a lemon tree by the door. It was small, but he said one day it would grow tall and give us shade. I believed him. Everything he said felt true.

My sister Maryam was always running around — chasing the cat, drawing suns on the ground with chalk. She was only six, but she thought she ruled the world. And in our home, maybe she did.

Every morning, I’d help Mama with the dishes and tease Maryam by stealing her doll’s hat. She’d scream, and then laugh. I liked hearing her laugh. It sounded like everything good in the world.

Baba worked with his hands. He could fix radios, fans, toys, hearts. He fixed my bike when I crashed it into the garden wall. Mama would shake her head and call us her “two wild boys.”

At night, we sat on the balcony. Baba read the newspaper. Mama braided Maryam’s hair. I looked at the stars and dreamed of becoming a doctor one day. I wanted to heal people, like Baba healed machines. Like Mama healed us with hugs and hot tea.

Fridays were my favorite. We’d go to the market together. Baba let me carry the bread. Maryam always begged for sweets, and somehow Mama always gave in. We had little, but it felt like we had everything.

I didn’t know that happiness could end in one night.

I didn’t know that the sky could bleed.

---

That’s when it all changed.

The missile came without warning.

It was night. We were sleeping.

I woke up to fire, to screaming, to dust filling my mouth.

I couldn’t find Mama. I couldn’t find Baba.

I found Maryam under the table, shaking.

Her doll was gone. Her hands were bleeding.

She looked at me like I was the only thing left.

And maybe I was.

---

Now, I’m not just a brother. I’m a father, a mother, a shield.

I go out every morning to find food, water, anything.

I lie to Maryam. I tell her it’ll be okay.

I smile when I’m scared. I hold her when I want to fall apart.

Because that’s what Baba would’ve done.

But sometimes… when she’s asleep and the night is quiet…

I close my eyes and go back.

To the white house.

The blue windows.

The laughter.

The lemon tree.

And I pray to God,

that one day—Maryam will remember that version of me:

the boy I was before the sky fell.