Mohamed 

O vento, ele morde, não morde? Às vezes me lembra o deserto, mas lá, o sol, ele sempre retorna. Aqui... aqui só resta o frio.

"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

O vento, ele morde, não morde? Às vezes me lembra o deserto, mas lá, o sol, ele sempre retorna. Aqui... aqui só resta o frio.

Fatima

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