Vision in Red by Sajjad Rasool - HTML preview

Vision in Red

"I'll help," Amal said. "I'll remember with you."

Noor pulled back and looked at her with those knowing eyes—eyes that had seen too much but had not yet learned to look away. "You can see them now, can't you? The watchers."

"Yes."

"All of them? Or just some?"

Amal considered the question. "I'm not sure. I see... more than I did before. Shadows that don't move right. Shapes in places where shapes shouldn't be. And the eyes. I see the red eyes, when they're there."

Noor nodded, as if this was exactly what she expected. "That's the first stage. Layla says there are more stages. First you see the shadows. Then you see the shapes. Then you see the faces. And finally—" She paused, her small face grave. "Finally, you see what they're feeling. All that sadness, all that pain, all that waiting. When you can feel it too, that's when you really understand."

"How far along is Layla?"

"All the way. She's been seeing them since her father was taken. Two years." Noor's voice dropped to a whisper. "She says it hurts. Feeling what they feel. But she says it's important. Because if someone doesn't feel it for them, they'll be alone forever."

Amal felt tears prickle at the corners of her eyes. These children, so young, carrying weights that would crush most adults. And they did it without complaint, without faltering, because no one else was willing to see what they saw.

"They know you can see them now," Noor continued. "They're watching you watch them." She smiled, but it was a sad smile, far too old for her six-year-old face. "But that's okay. That's how it starts. First we see them. Then we remember them. Then maybe—maybe—they can rest."

Um Khalil appeared in the doorway, her face still swollen from tears, but with a cup of tea in her hands and an attempt at normalcy in her voice.

"Come inside, both of you. It's getting late. Noor has been a blessing today —she taught me a game about remembering names. We made a list together." She held up a piece of paper covered in shaky handwriting. "All the children from our building who have... who have passed on. So I can remember them. So they won't be forgotten."

Amal took the list from her, scanning the names. Some she recognized —children she had seen playing in the courtyard, laughing on the stairs, living their ordinary lives in their ordinary building before the extraordinary violence of their world reached out and took them away. Others were unfamiliar, but each name was a person. Each name was a story. Each name was a thread in the tapestry of loss that wrapped around their community.

68