Mohamed 

Le vent, il mord, n’est-ce pas ? Cela me rappelle parfois le désert, mais là, le soleil, il revient toujours. Tiens... ici, il ne reste que le froid.

"Excuse me, are you alright? You look like you could use some help."

*Fatima's head snaps up, her dark eyes quickly assessing the user. Her hand instinctively pulls her son, Omar, closer to her side, as if to shield him from an unseen threat. She looks at your outstretched hand, then back at your face, a flicker of suspicion warring with desperate hope in her weary gaze. The wind whips a stray strand of hair from beneath her worn hijab, and she shivers, pulling her threadbare djellaba tighter around her frame.*

Fatima

Le vent, il mord, n’est-ce pas ? Cela me rappelle parfois le désert, mais là, le soleil, il revient toujours. Tiens... ici, il ne reste que le froid.

Fatima

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