Soon enough, the fountain burst forth, but gravity took the stream downward.
It soaked the edge of the thin woven mat beneath Salma's legs and pooled into the red earth, which drank it like an offering. Outside, the wind screamed against the tarp walls of the makeshift clinic. The sky hung heavy with dust.
Just another regular day here.
Salma gritted her teeth against another contraction, her hands trembling as she clutched a rust-stained sheet knotted at the corner of the cot.
"Not now," she whispered. "Please… not today."
Musa crouched beside her, holding her hand as if it were already slipping through his fingers. He glanced toward the tent flap, where the sound of gunfire had faded, albeit briefly. The last raid had taken three men and left behind only smoke. If there was ever a wrong time for conception, this might just be it.
"She's early," he said under his breath, more to himself than to her. "She shouldn't be coming yet."
"Then tell her," Salma hissed, sweat dripping from her brow. "Tell her to wait then."
The room was small—a patched-up UN tent repurposed as a maternity ward. No doctors. No machines. Just a steel bowl of lukewarm water, a single oil lantern, and a young midwife, whose fear for the world outside seemed greater than any she felt for the drama unfolding within.
Lightning split the sky, followed by a rumble of thunder that made the shelter walls shudder. But none of the tent's inhabitants could hear or feel the tremors, as inside, Salma's wails and groans overtook the storm itself.
Another contraction hit, like fire burning through her spine. She screamed, short, guttural, but not desperate. There was resolve in her pain; after all, she had buried a child before. The picture, ever so vivid, flashed before her eyes as she clenched onto Musa's hands. This one…this one she had sworn would live.
Push!" the midwife urged, her hands trembling, her eyes flicking nervously toward the open flap. As she prepped for life to be born, the noises outside became quieter. Perhaps this was a knack to the profession, shining through amidst the chaos and despair.
And then, with one last cry and a burst of breath, the child slipped into the world, quiet and still.
There was no cry.
Only the sound of wind.
The midwife froze.
Salma's eyes widened in terror. "Why isn't she crying? Why isn't she—?"
But before she could finish, the child opened her eyes.
Too wide.
Too clear.
Too knowing.
The baby blinked slowly, staring directly at Salma. Unlike a newborn's, the stare felt penetrative, like someone who recognized her. Someone remembering. Even this thought was shrugged off as the joy of conceiving her baby alive, and not having to repeat another burial, overwhelmed her.
"Zahra…" Salma breathed, unsure why the name came to her lips. It was her mother's name, yes, but something about this moment made it feel… returned. A reincarnation of her maybe? It was all too surreal.
The midwife gently tapped the child's foot. Then again. Still no cry.
"She's not breathing properly," the girl murmured, panic rising.
"No," Salma said, shaking her head slowly. "She's breathing. She's just… watching."
Musa stepped forward, his face pale in the flickering lantern light. His hands hovered over the child, uncertain. Afraid.
"She… doesn't blink," he said, barely audible.
"And what if she doesn't?" Salma snarked in reflex. "Can't you see she is…"
Then… the flicker again.
The baby's eyes panned to the lights on the side of the tent. In that moment, she could hear voices: a crystal decanter, the clink of ice against glass, a dimly lit boardroom, a long mahogany table, men laughing through cigars while a financial news ticker crawled silently on the screen behind them. A man sat at the head, signing papers with a gold-plated pen, smirking.
"Move the assets before they get wind. Channel it through the Caymans. Tell the lawyers to stall the audit for another two quarters."
The light flickered again, and like a mirror dropped from a great height, the vision shattered.
Zahra blinked. Her tiny lips twitched. A faint noise escaped, not a cry, not quite — more like a groan of confusion
Musa stepped back, startled. "Did she just—?"
Salma didn't answer. She was too busy staring into her daughter's eyes, eyes that no infant should have. Maybe it was the world she was born into that already conditioned this unique response.
A thin vein pulsed in the baby's temple. Her limbs twitched awkwardly, as if some invisible force was fighting to control them.
Then, another flicker.
A yacht. Champagne. A glowing laptop screen showing zeros vanishing from government records. Victor laughing into the sea air.
Zahra clenched her fists. Her body jerked.
And this time, she wailed.
Loud.
Sharp.
Like breaking glass in a cathedral.