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At the largest fire, an old Hausa woman stood and sang of gods who guard the moon’s path. Her voice rippled through the night like wind over sand. Tears streamed down Anna’s face as she listened.
Amastan wrapped his arm around her shoulders.
“You carry so many tears,” he murmured.
She leaned into his warmth.
“They are not sorrow. They are gratitude for what remains human in us, even after chains.”
> She thought: If freedom has a song, it is not of triumph. It is the weeping that cleanses us enough to stand
Night fell upon the oasis, bright with scattered campfires. The freed captives sat in circles, eating dates and goat stew, their voices rising in songs of many tongues. Anna walked among them, her hair braided with desert silver beads. Children reached for her robe, their eyes wide with trust.
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Inspired by @Diane-de-la-Cheneraye