Vision in Red by Sajjad Rasool - HTML preview

Children of Olive

"Huda has her ways," Yasmin said. She knocked on the door. Not a normal knock, but a specific rhythm. Three quick taps. A pause. Two heavy thuds.

For a long moment, there was silence. Then, the sound of bolts sliding back. One. Two. Three.

The door creaked open.

The woman standing in the gloom of the hallway was tiny. She was shrunken by age, her spine curved like a question mark, her skin a map of deep, intersecting wrinkles. She wore a traditional thobe, the embroidery on the chest faded from decades of washing but still intricate—patterns of cypress trees and birds that Amal recognized as belonging to a village that no longer existed.

Her head was covered by a white scarf, pulled tight. But it was her eyes that made Amal catch her breath.

They were milky white. Clouded by cataracts so thick they looked like pearls set into her face.

"Yasmin," the old woman said. Her voice was like the rustling of dry leaves. "You brought a stranger."

"Not a stranger, Auntie," Yasmin said respectfully, stepping over the salt line. "This is Amal. She's... she's seeing things."

The old woman turned her head, tilting it slightly as if listening to a frequency Amal couldn't hear. "Seeing alone is not a sin," she croaked. "But seeing and speaking... that is a danger."

She stepped back, gesturing with a hand that looked like a bundle of twigs. "Come in. Quickly. Do not let the shadows follow you."

Amal stepped over the salt. As she crossed the threshold, she felt a sudden drop in pressure, as if she had walked into a vacuum. The noise of the camp—the distant shouting, the scooters, the Zenana drone —cut off instantly.

Inside, the house was dark. The windows were covered with thick blankets. The only light came from oil lamps placed in the corners, casting long, flickering shadows.

And the mirrors.

Every reflective surface in the room —a hallway mirror, the glass front of a cabinet, even the screen of an old television —was covered with black cloth.

"Sit," Huda commanded, pointing to a set of floor cushions arranged around a low brass table.

Amal sat, her heart pounding. The room felt heavy. Oppressive. It felt less like a home and more like a bunker. Or a shrine.

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