Ryaan's pov

I woke before the sun, with my ears still ringing from last night’s screams. The shelter was too quiet now; a silence that felt as heavy as the rubble outside. I sat up on the hard, cold floor, careful not to wake Maryam, who slept fitfully at the corner. Even in sleep, I could see the fear in her eyes.

I stepped outside into a morning that offered no warmth. The horizon was a dark bruise in the sky, and bitter wind sliced through the ruins of our home. My feet, bare and battered, found each step painful on the shattered glass and debris scattered all around. I had learned quickly that each step was a struggle—a daily act of determination in a place where nothing felt safe or certain.

I left the shelter with a heavy heart. Every sunrise reminded me of the last time I had seen one. Back then, mornings were bright and full of promise. I remembered the laughter echoing from the courtyard as I chased Maryam, and the smell of Baba’s strong coffee mixed with Mama’s warm bread. Now, the memories were ghosts haunting every desolate street I passed.

The city was different too. The vibrant bustle had vanished, replaced by the groan of broken buildings and the distant cry of another startled soul. I passed by a corner where a woman sat huddled, her eyes tired from searching for any remnants of normalcy. I offered her a nod—one of those silent gestures that said, “I understand,” even though words failed us both.

My mind spun with worry. I had to find food, water, anything to keep us going—but I also knew that every minute away from Maryam meant risking her safety. I trekked block after block, scavenging through shattered shops and overgrown alleys, picking up broken pieces of bread or a can of water that someone left behind. Each small treasure felt like a victory, a reminder that perhaps we could survive this relentless morning.

And as the weak light of dawn began to tint the sky, I thought of the boy I was not so long ago—the boy who played in the sun, whose laughter echoed in every corner, and whose biggest worry was finishing homework on time. That child was gone, and in his place was a reluctant guardian, burdened but determined to protect his little sister no matter what this harsh new world demanded.

By the time I returned to the shelter, I was both physically aching and emotionally hollow. Maryam stirred awake, and when her eyes met mine, there was a silent understanding between us: no matter how difficult the morning had been, I would keep searching, keep fighting. For her, for the memory of our past, and for a future that might, one day, bring back even a sliver of the sun.

The bread I brought back was dry and dusty.

Maryam smiled anyway. She broke it in half and gave me the bigger piece, even though I knew she was hungrier.

She kept asking if Mama and Baba would come back soon.

I told her,

“They’re probably helping someone else right now.”

She nodded, believing me. She always believes me.

God, I wish I could believe myself.

---

After she ate, I made her promise to stay inside the shelter with the others.

I told her I had to go check something. She didn’t ask questions.

She just hugged me and whispered,

“Be safe, Ryaan.”

I didn’t know what to say.

How can you promise safety in a place that’s forgotten what safety means?

---

I walked back toward where our house used to be.

Or what’s left of it.

The air still smelled like burnt metal and cement dust.

The lemon tree Baba planted? Gone.

The door Mama painted blue? Ash.

I stood at the edge of the crater that used to be our living room and just… stared.

There were shoes buried in the rubble. Books. A teacup.

But no sign of them.

No bodies.

No goodbye.

I climbed over the ruins, hands scraped, knees shaking.

I called out:

“Mama…”

“Baba…”

Again. And again.

Just silence.

The kind that screams at you.

---

I found a torn piece of Baba’s scarf.

And a photo — the one of all four of us at the beach, taped to a cracked wall.

It had ash on it, but their faces were still there.

Smiling. Whole.

I sat there for a long time, holding it.

Hoping.

Begging.

Maybe they got out. Maybe someone helped them. Maybe they’re looking for us too.

But I know… I know.

They were in the house when it hit.

Still, part of me refuses to believe they’re gone unless I find them.

Unless I can hold their hands one last time.

Unless I can bury them like humans deserve.

But what do you do…

when war takes even that away?

---

I walked back as the sun began to set, the sky burning orange like it was ashamed of what it had watched all day.

I didn’t have answers. I didn’t have my parents.

But I had Maryam.

She ran to me when she saw me.

Hugged me tight.

I didn’t tell her what I saw.

Or what I didn’t.

She just whispered, “You came back.”

And I held her tighter than ever.

Because for now, I’m all she has.

And she’s all I have left.