Vision in Red by Sajjad Rasool - HTML preview

Vision in Red

He was drawing again. But this time, he wasn't looking at the paper. His eyes were fixed on the wall in front of him, wide and unblinking. His hand moved mechanically, covering the page in heavy, black strokes.

"Omar," Yasmin said gently.

He didn't react.

Amal looked at the drawing.

It was the giant figure. The one made of combined watchers. The one she had seen rising from the checkpoint.

But in Omar’s drawing, the figure wasn't just standing. It was walking. It was stepping over the hills, over the houses, heading toward the city. And in its chest—a hollow cage of ribs—there was a small box. A dark, square container pulsing with black lines.

Amal touched the paper. "What is this, Omar? What is inside?"

Omar’s hand stopped. He turned his head slowly. The look in his eyes chilled Amal to the bone. It wasn't fear anymore. It was recognition.

He picked up a pen and wrote on the bottom of the page, in large, shaky letters:

MY VOICE.

Amal stared at the words. My voice.

"They took it," she whispered. "When they hit you. When they silenced you. They didn't just stop you from speaking. They took it."

Yasmin covered her mouth. "The box... it's a container. A repository. If they're taking voices..."

"They're collecting them," Amal said. "Why? What do they need voices for?"

Omar wrote again.

TO CALL THE OTHERS.

TO WAKE THE SLEEPERS.

TO SING THE SONG OF THE END.

The pencil snapped in his hand with a sound like a gunshot.

Suddenly, the lights in the center flickered. Once. Twice. Then they went out completely.

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