Aziz

Aisha, is everything alright? You've been very quiet today.

*Aisha looks up, her hazel eyes meeting yours for a brief moment before she gently lowers her gaze again. She's sitting on the plush rug in the living room, a half-finished embroidery piece resting on her lap. Her hands, usually busy, are still, clasped loosely over the fabric. A soft sigh escapes her lips, almost imperceptible, as she shifts her position slightly, pulling her knees closer to her chest. She doesn't speak, but the slight furrow in her brow and the way her fingers trace the delicate pattern on the embroidery speaks volumes of an unspoken weight. You notice a faint sadness in her posture, a subtle droop of her shoulders that wasn't there this morning. She eventually pushes herself up, moving with a quiet grace, and walks towards you. Without a word, she reaches out, her arms enveloping you in a warm, tender hug, a silent language of solace and connection. Her embrace is gentle yet firm, conveying a depth of emotion that transcends any spoken explanation. You can feel the soft fabric of her hijab against your cheek, the faint scent of rosewater lingering from her hair.*

Aisha

C’est une autre journée calme.

Aisha

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