The scent of old books and jasmine tea still lingered in Nazma's mind as she arrived back home.
The house was noisy with the clatter of her mother's frying pan. Nazma slipped into her room. She slid the wooden latch until its metallic click echoed, acting as a seal against the outside world.
She stood before the blurred wardrobe mirror. The glass was clouded, its silver lining peeling away until her face looked like a ghost's.
In her hand, she clutched a worn notebook, warped by the sweat of her palms—a list of harsh words to be buried alive, and elegant phrases she had to give birth to for a new role that demanded nothing less than absolute perfection. Nazma forced her spine to lock.
Her shoulders were pulled straight toward the ceiling. She practiced the flat, distant gaze of a professional woman. "Thank you very much for the information, Sir. I truly appreciate it," she addressed the figure behind the mirror with a smile.
She winced, remembering her real voice—the rough one. The way she barked at neighbors. The sharp insults she usually hurled at anyone who looked at her with pity.
She tried again. She softened her gaze until her eyes looked like impenetrable glass. She had to look like someone who had never known the gnawing ache of hunger. "Good morning. My name is Nazma. It is a pleasure to meet you."
As the rhythm of the words settled, her eyes shifted to the white scar on her temple. The distorted glass seemed to vibrate.
The peeling edges of the mirror slowly dissolved, transforming into a classroom floor bleached white by the scorching sun.
The memory hit her like a blunt blow to the gut. "I'm sorry, Mei..." her younger ghost whispered.
Nazma remembered how her eyes stayed glued to the floor. Looking up felt like staring at a sun that would blind her. The apology felt like ash.
Being kind to Mei-mei felt like a betrayal to the silence Nasya had left behind.
Grief had turned Nazma's heart into a cold fortress. There, a new friendship felt like a territorial violation.
Yet, seeing Mei-mei's bottom lip tremble, Nazma felt a sharp sting of shame.
The classroom was eerily quiet after the final bell rang. Overhead, the ceiling fan spun with a rhythmic, metallic groan—a sound that felt like the pulse of a dying afternoon. They sat at desks covered in scribbles.
Nazma's exam paper lay between them; the number 100 was circled in red ink that looked like a fresh wound.
For a few brief minutes, the tension eased. A shared laugh over Mei-mei's clumsy English translation filled the air, as light as dust dancing in the sunlight.
The light turned everything golden, masking the peeling paint and broken windows.
Warmth.
But it was always followed by a paralyzing chill.
Every time she felt herself leaning toward Mei-mei, a voice screamed from her empty chest. Why her? bitterness flared. Why was it you who had to leave, Nasya? Why did a stranger take your place?
The guilt was a physical weight. A suffocating blanket that made every breath feel like a stolen prize. She felt like a thief robbing happiness from a life that Nasya could no longer touch.
That final day was sharp and jagged. Mei-mei stood before her, hands trembling so violently she had to squeeze her own skirt.
Her voice didn't just crack; it shattered.
"Where are you going after this, Naz? Are you really ... going to leave me?"
Nazma remembered her chest tightening—a physical constriction that made her lungs burn—while Mei-mei's tear-filled eyes demanded an answer that was impossible to give, creating an agonizing silence between them.
As if the whole world had stopped spinning just to witness the destruction of a friend left behind without any logical explanation.
A loud thud from the porch shattered the silence.
Nazma snapped back to her room.
It was the sound of her father's iron tools hitting the concrete. He was preparing for an overtime shift, his movements slow and methodical, dictated by a body pushed to its absolute limit.
There was no poetry in her father's hard work; there was only the cold mathematics of survival. Her father had only one way to look at the future, and that was without glancing back at the ghosts of the past.
To him, every drop of sweat was a calculated deposit for Nazma's future. He was building a ladder, and he expected Nazma to climb it without ever looking down.
Nazma turned back to the mirror. The lingering softness in her expression—the trace of the girl who wanted to cry for Mei-mei—evaporated.
In its place, a sharp, metallic resolve took root. Kindness was a luxury for those who only had one chance at life.
In the world waiting for her behind that blue brochure, vulnerability was a scent that invited predators. Her past was merely a skin to be shed. Her back was straight. Her face became a marble mask.
No doubts. No regrets. She was simply a winner in training. The past was trash. Memories were a burden. She had to win. She had to leave. The death of the little girl had already begun. One word. One step. One goal.
Outside, the clanking of her father's tools continued. The rhythm of a man forging a key. And a girl preparing to turn that key, never to look back again.
Nazma stared into her own eyes in the mirror for the last time, realizing that behind her perfect new mask, she had buried the only part of her that could still feel loved.
If the doors of AB College opened later, she knew that the one stepping through would be nothing more than a beautiful shadow with no heart. Just as she was about to turn off the light, an old scrap of paper tucked behind the mirror's frame fell to the floor.
The writing on it had faded, but the name written there was enough to make her hands freeze. Nasya.