A letter of recognition for all refugees around the world.
“You’re late,” came the familiar, feminine voice from beyond the hallway, laced with an even more familiar exasperation. Though the voice itself was barely audible, the footfalls that accompanied it were anything but. Atop marble floors did they click, gradually nearing, until they all but fell away. Eventually, the door to the private chambers swung inwards on its hinges, and a figure stood beneath the arch, wearing an expression that bordered on annoyance. Even if the girl hadn’t heard the voice from across the way, she knew it could only be one person – nobody else would dare enter her quarters without first announcing their presence with a rap on the door — thrice, as was customary in her family.
Mother.
“Come on, Aurora. The cart is here. What are you waiting for? You haven’t even finished dressing!” Miriam exclaimed, taking a single step into the interior. Despite their wealthy background, Aurora’s chambers, and indeed the estate as a whole, were rather modestly furnished. A lavish velvet rug — the only thing that stood out as particularly expensive — guided visitors towards the centre, where a desk carved from aged whisperwood acted as the central axis of the room, thereby orienting all else around it. Floral tapestries adorned the ceiling and the walls, acting as makeshift curtains for the low-hanging windows on either side of the room. In the far corner, close to the queen-sized bed, there was a young girl perched on her windowsill, knees brought up to her chest. She was humming gently to herself, swaying side-to-side, with her gaze fixated on the mountaintops whose peaks rose high above the skyline. That always fascinated her – just how much of the world was beyond the horizon. She wanted nothing more than to see it all. But she couldn’t. Not yet.
Drawing herself from her thoughts, Aurora turned to regard her mother with a surprisingly serene expression, despite the situation. Her lips curled in anticipation of readying herself to speak, though she didn’t say anything quite yet. A soft, wistful sigh left her as she turned to sweep her legs off the windowsill and toe the floor. “Sorry, mother,” came Aurora’s sheepish voice.
“You are much too young for these world-weary sighs, Aurora,” Miriam replied. “You’ve a life ahead of you. Take it from someone who has: don’t waste your life daydreaming about one that isn’t yours. It’ll pass you by.” At once, her mother approached, offering her hairbrush. As Aurora took it and allowed the comb to weave through her tangled, golden-brown locks, she approached the mirror on her dressing table. Her eyes searched for her mother’s in the reflection, and she asked, eyes glittering with innocent, naive curiosity,
“…Don’t you ever wonder what it’s like, Ma? You know – out there?” Aurora knew this was no time to discuss such a matter, but something within bid her to question her mother. “You’ve always told me that this isn’t home. So why can’t we go home, Ma? The way you and Pa describe it, I can’t imagine why we stay here when we-”
“Aurora…” came Miriam’s voice, placating Aurora’s brimming excitement. “This is no time to discuss this. Get dressed, else we’re leaving for Qirya without you. I hear the merchant at this year’s bazaar has exotic goods from all over the world. You’ve been saving your pocket money, haven’t you?” As though prompted by her mother’s care, a smile appeared on Aurora’s countenance. Of course she had. She was responsible, and there was an atlas she’d seen at last year’s bazaar that she was all too eager to purchase. Hopefully it was still there.
“I’ll be just a moment, Mother.”
As she turned to leave, Miriam felt a pang of guilt permeate her chest. She slowed her pace, bracing herself for the inevitable question. No sooner had she slowed her pace, than Aurora’s voice queried, as though it were a soft, melancholic verse uttered in resignation,
“Will we ever go home, Mother?”
“…Dearest Aurora. Home is not your birthplace; neither yours nor your ancestors. Home, my dear, for people like us, is where all our attempts to escape cease, and at last we settle . . . “