The silence in the hall felt like a weight pressing down on every chest. After the chaos her stepmother had caused, the room still buzzed with an invisible tension — sharp, heavy, and lingering. Amina sat at the end of the long table, her hands trembling slightly as she tried to steady her breathing. Her heart hadn't stopped racing since the moment her grandmother walked through the door.
Her grandmother.
The only constant light in her life.
The only person who stood between her and complete despair.
Amina's chest tightened as she replayed the confrontation in her mind. The way her stepmother had stormed in, spewing venom with every word… how boldly she tried to drag her away in front of everyone… and how the teachers looked at her — some in shock, others in pity.
But the worst part, the part that stuck like a thorn, was the fear she saw in her father's eyes the last time he looked at her. He believed all those lies. He believed she was a burden, a curse.
Her grandmother's hand squeezed hers gently. "Breathe, my child," she whispered. "Your journey doesn't end here."
Amina nodded slightly. She wanted to respond, but her voice felt trapped somewhere deep in her throat.
"All right," the examiner said, clearing his throat and regaining command of the room. "Let's continue. Miss Amina, are you ready?"
No.
But she couldn't say that.
"Yes, sir," she whispered.
The panel resumed the questions. They were harder now — case studies, logic problems, math puzzles that required steady thinking. Under normal circumstances, Amina would excel. But today… today her mind felt like a crumbling wall, barely holding up.
"Focus," she begged herself silently.
Every time she blinked, she saw her stepmother's face. Every time she inhaled, she heard the threat: You have no idea what awaits you at home.
Amina swallowed hard. Home. That place didn't feel like a home anymore. It felt like a battlefield where she always lost.
But something inside her refused to break. Maybe it was her grandmother's presence beside her. Maybe it was the fact that, for once, someone — the examiner — believed she deserved to be there.
She straightened her back and answered each question as clearly as she could. The words came slow at first, but gradually her confidence returned, little by little.
When the final question came, the hall was so quiet she could hear her own heartbeat.
"Miss Amina," one of the female teachers said gently, "what motivates you? Why do you want this scholarship?"
The question stunned her. Not because she didn't know the answer — but because it forced her to confront the one thing she rarely spoke about.
She lowered her gaze. Her grandmother watched her carefully, her eyes filled with warmth and fear at the same time.
Amina took a shaky breath.
"Because…" Her voice cracked.
"...because if I don't fight for my future, no one else will."
The room leaned in.
"My life has been hard," she continued quietly. "We live in a leaking house. Sometimes we sleep hungry. Sometimes I read with one candle because we can't afford more. My stepmother tears my books. She hides my uniform. She does everything to stop me."
Her fingers twisted together.
"But still, I wake up and try. Because I want a life where I can breathe. A life where I'm not punished for existing."
A hush fell over the room.
The teacher blinked away tears. The examiner cleared his throat to steady himself. Even the receptionist, who earlier doubted her, looked at her with softened eyes.
When the interview finally ended, the examiner stood and nodded. "Thank you, Amina. You may go. We'll release the results soon."
Amina gathered her books slowly. Relief washed over her, but so did exhaustion. Her grandmother helped her stand, brushing imaginary dust off her shoulder.
"You were brave," she whispered. "Braver than they'll ever know."
Amina smiled weakly. "Thank you, Grandma."
They stepped outside the hall into the courtyard. The air felt different — warmer, lighter — as though the world was rewarding her for surviving one more storm.
But the moment they reached the gate, her grandmother's grip on her hand tightened.
Too tight.
"Grandma?" Amina looked back.
The elderly woman's face had gone pale. Her breath came in short gasps, her chest rising unevenly.
"Are you okay?" Amina asked, panic rising.
Her grandmother tried to respond, but her lips barely moved. She staggered, and Amina quickly wrapped her arms around her.
"Grandma!"
A few students nearby turned at the sound. One ran toward them, alarmed. "Call the nurse!" he shouted.
Amina felt her grandmother's body grow heavy in her arms.
"Grandma, please don't do this," she whispered, tears blurring her vision.
"Stay with me. Stay, please."
The school nurse sprinted across the courtyard. "Lay her down gently," she instructed.
Amina knelt on the ground, supporting her grandmother's head.
"I'm here," she whispered.
"I'm right here."
The nurse checked her pulse, her breathing, her temperature.
Her expression shifted — worry, then urgency.
"We need to get her to the clinic," she said. "Immediately."
Amina's heart felt like it was tearing apart.
"I don't have money," she blurted out. "Please—"
"Don't worry about that," the nurse said firmly. "Just help me lift her."
Together, they carried her grandmother to a small school clinic room with two old beds. The nurse placed an oxygen mask on her and started checking her vitals.
Amina hovered beside the bed, gripping her grandmother's frail hand.
"Please wake up…" she whispered.
Minutes passed.
Long, silent minutes that felt like hours.
The nurse stepped away, giving Amina space.
"What's wrong with her?" Amina asked, her voice shaking.
The nurse hesitated. "It may be stress… exhaustion… or her heart. She needs proper medical care."
"But…" Amina swallowed. "We can't afford a hospital."
The nurse looked at her — a mix of sympathy and frustration in her eyes. "I know. But she needs help soon."
Amina felt everything crumble.
Her scholarship hopes…
Her grandmother's health…
The fear of going back home…
Everything pressed down on her until she could barely breathe.
She rested her head on her grandmother's hand, tears slipping down her cheeks.
"You're the only one I have left," she whispered.
"Don't leave me too."
Her grandmother stirred weakly, her fingers tightening around Amina's.
"My child…" she whispered through the oxygen mask.
"You're stronger than you think."
Amina's tears fell harder.
"No… I'm only strong because of you."
Her grandmother opened her eyes slightly. "No matter what happens… keep walking. Don't let anyone dim your light…"
"Grandma, stop," Amina whispered. "Please don't talk like that. You'll be fine."
But her grandmother only smiled softly — tired, but proud.
Outside the clinic, footsteps echoed. Someone hurried toward the door. The examiner stepped in, worry etched on his face.
"I heard what happened," he said quietly. "Is she stable?"
Amina nodded weakly. "She's… trying."
He looked at her gently. "If you need help, tell me. Don't carry everything alone."
Amina swallowed hard. For a moment, she didn't know what to say.
Before she could answer, a loud voice pierced the silence.
It was her stepmother.
Again.
She stormed into the clinic, furious. "So this is where you ran to? Embarrassing me in public wasn't enough — now you want to kill your grandmother too?"
Amina stood immediately, blocking her.
"Please leave," she whispered, trembling.
The stepmother sneered. "Or what? You think you're bold now, abi?"
Her voice rose.
"You think because you went for one scholarship interview, you're a queen?"
"Madam," the nurse snapped, "get out."
The stepmother threw her a cold glare. "I will not leave. That old woman—"
"Don't finish that sentence," Amina said quietly.
The stepmother paused — stunned by the sudden strength in Amina's voice.
"This is a clinic," Amina continued, her voice steady despite the tears in her eyes. "My grandmother is sick. If you can't respect that, then leave."
The stepmother opened her mouth to argue — but the examiner stepped forward.
"Madam, if you don't leave now, I will call security."
The stepmother's face twisted in anger. She turned sharply and stormed out.
Amina's knees shook. She sat down again, her heart crashing rapidly.
Her grandmother's fingers twitched weakly against hers.
"My child…" she whispered.
"Don't be afraid. This storm will pass."
Amina leaned closer. "I'm only afraid of losing you."
Her grandmother's breathing slowed — soft, shallow, fragile.
And in that quiet, uncertain clinic room, surrounded by fear, exhaustion, and the faint smell of antiseptic…
Amina felt her entire world hanging by a thin, trembling thread.