She Sings in the Morning.

The house stood on the edge of the Cornish cliffs. Glass walls held the sea like a restless secret. Below, the cove curled in quiet, soft sand and rocks smooth from years of wind and wave. The tide whispered in gentle rhythms, brushing the shore with pale foam. Salt hung thick in the air, mixing with the faint sweetness of wild thyme and damp stone.

Nasser sat wrapped in a worn blanket on the balcony. His hands closed around a mug of coffee, rough and warm against his skin. The morning was sharp but kind. A pale pink streak brushed the horizon where the sun waited just out of sight. He breathed in deep, the chill and salt pressing against his chest like a slow pulse.

Behind him, a light voice floated. Soft, delicate, almost a song without words. Safiya stood barefoot on the balcony floor, her curls catching the pale dawn light. She twirled once, then twice, humming a melody that felt both new and ancient.

Then, in the stillness, she added words.

I had a name before this one
And the river knew it too.

Nasser turned slowly, watching her. Her eyes shone wide and bright, as if the song belonged to her, and to somewhere far away all at once. She held a piece of toast in one hand. Crust bitten unevenly. Crumbs dotted her fingers like tiny stars.

“I made that song up,” she said, her voice light and certain.

“Did you?” Nasser asked, voice low.

“Maybe,” she whispered. “Or maybe someone told it to me before the plane.”

“Which plane?”

“The one with the yellow seats.”

Nasser’s breath caught. There had been no yellow seats on their flight. Just green and grey. He remembered Amir trying to distract Safiya with a sticker book, her silence, the way she never looked out the window as if the world beyond was something to be feared.

He sipped the bitter coffee, cold now, and listened as she sang again.

If I sing pretty enough, I can stay.
If I smile the whole time, they won’t ask.
If I’m quiet, I can be the wind again.

“Where did you hear that?” he asked.

“A lady sang it,” she said softly. “She had braids and rings on her fingers. She smelled like oranges.”

“Was she in Morocco?”

“No. Before Morocco. Before I came here.”

“But you were born there,” he said, kneeling beside her.

“That’s just where you got me from.”

The waves called below. Gulls wheeled and cried. The wind tugged at Nasser’s blanket, pulling him back to a present that felt fragile. He watched Safiya gaze out across the sea, eyes tracing something invisible.

“There’s a boat out there,” she said suddenly, pointing to a small dot far on the horizon.

He squinted but saw only light. Bright, shimmering, endless.

“I think I know it,” she said, voice full of certainty.

She began to hum again. A soft, wordless tune like the wind moving through empty caves.


---

That afternoon, they walked down the narrow path to the beach. Safiya skipped ahead, sandals slapping against sun-warmed stones, her laughter ringing bright against the cliffs. The scent of salt and wildflowers trailed behind her.

The beach was empty except for two old women and their small dogs, and a boy stacking stones near the tide line. Safiya crouched down, poking at seaweed with a stick, singing little songs that seemed to drift between them like mist.

Once she stopped and said, “I used to sit on a step with blue tiles. There were goats. A man gave me mango.”

Nasser looked down at her, curious but cautious.

“Where was that?” he asked.

She shrugged, legs tucked beneath her. “I don’t know. A sunny place. My legs stuck to the chair. I didn’t like the fish. But I liked the man.”

The sea stretched wide, restless and unchanging. Nasser’s throat tightened. She spoke of things that did not belong here. Not in this quiet cove. Not in this new life carefully built.

Later, after she was tucked in bed and Amir poured two glasses of wine in the kitchen, Nasser sat by the window. The adoption papers lay open on the table. Photographs, notes, official stamps. A record of no known family, no history.

His eyes caught the crayon drawing on the fridge. Three people, a boat, a woman with braids standing beside a mango tree. He did not remember Safiya ever talking about these things before.

The house sighed around him. Outside, the sea called softly through the night.


---

Morning came like a whisper. Safiya was already outside, standing with her small hands pressed against the glass. The yellow dress she wore fluttered in the breeze. Her voice floated on the wind as she hummed.

A boat was there. A tiny shape rocking on the horizon.

“They are coming,” she said, eyes wide and serious. “To find me.”

Nasser pulled her close, feeling the weight of her small body. The warmth of her skin was the only certainty in a moment filled with shadows.

“You are already found,” he whispered.

She smiled softly and looked out to the sea. “I am here, but not all the way here.”

The tide pulled back and forth. The gulls called overhead. The house held its breath.

Something beautiful lived in the light. Something else waited in the quiet spaces beneath it.


---
THE END.