She followed the dreams that once lived in the pages of her childhood stories — dreams she had tucked away when survival was her only mission.
Now, she let them breathe.
She opened studios across the world — not for profit, not for fame — but for freedom. Freedom of expression. Freedom to heal. Freedom to be.
In her art studios, Zahrah taught painting and sketching — not as skills, but as stories. "Every line has a voice," she'd say. Children and adults alike learned how to turn pain into color, grief into brushstrokes, joy into form.
In her writing workshops, she taught the power of words — how to use language to rebuild what life had broken. Her novels reached millions, her poetry softened hardened hearts. Her songs... oh, her songs. She wrote them from her soul. And when she sang, the world listened.
Her music studios trained voices of all kinds — shy ones, trembling ones, broken ones. She didn't just teach them to sing — she taught them to be heard.
Zahrah became a ballet dancer, graceful as a swan, strong as steel. "Dancing is the body's way of remembering joy," she told her students. People from all walks of life learned to move with pride — children, elders, even amputees who danced with cybernetic limbs like her own.
And then there were the animals.
Zahrah had a strange and beautiful gift. She took in abandoned wild animals — wolves, tigers, panthers, even birds of prey — and trained them not for war, but for kindness. With time, those animals became companions to the orphaned, the lonely, and the broken-hearted. "They protect the hearts of those who need love the most," Zahrah said.
She also opened self-defense academies for girls and women, teaching them not just how to fight, but how to stand tall. "You don't have to wait for a savior," she'd say. "You are your own."
Her presence became more than just a legacy — she became a living legend.
And yet, even with all the people, all the studios, all the accolades…
At night, Zahrah still painted in solitude. She still danced barefoot under the moon. She still wrote poetry by candlelight. She still looked at the stars and whispered to her parents, "I'm still your flower."
But Zahrah's dreams didn't end there.
Before the world knew her name, before peace or titles or thrones, she had once dreamed — quietly, secretly — of becoming an interior and exterior designer. She used to sketch dream homes in the corners of old notebooks, redesigning broken spaces into sanctuaries of light and warmth.
She also dreamed of fashion — not for vanity, but for voice. Of creating clothes that told stories, stitched with culture, history, and power. Her designs were not about trends — they were about truth. She believed fashion could heal, could honor identity, could give the invisible a shape.
So she pursued those dreams too.
She opened design academies across the globe — schools that taught architecture and fashion as a form of expression, resilience, and freedom.
"Design is how the soul arranges the world around it," Zahrah would say. "Let it speak."
And somewhere in the silence of that peace-filled world…
A little girl who had once been forgotten had become the woman the world would never forget