The Rhythm of the Wounded

The drum was her only companion, her confessor, her solace. For years, Zaira had lived with the weight of unspoken grief, a heaviness that threatened to consume her. The world around her moved as if in a trance, indifferent to the cries of the broken. But Zaira had learned one thing: when words failed, the drum spoke.

She sat cross-legged on the cold pavement of the city’s square, the drum nestled between her knees. Her hands hovered above its taut skin, hesitant, as if waiting for permission. Around her, people passed in hurried steps, their faces masked with apathy. Yet Zaira could feel it—the unspoken anguish lurking beneath their hurried glances, their averted eyes. Pain was universal, but acknowledgment was rare.

She began to play.

The first beat was soft, a mere whisper against the skin of the drum. It echoed in the silent corners of her mind, stirring memories she had tried to bury. Her father’s laughter, once vibrant, now a distant echo. The village she had left behind, swallowed by flames. The faces of those who had danced not in joy, but in defiance of despair.

As her hands moved faster, the rhythm grew louder, more insistent. It was not a melody of joy, nor a song of celebration. It was raw, primal—a heartbeat that resonated with the cracks in her soul. The sound carried through the square, turning heads, drawing hesitant glances.

Zaira closed her eyes, losing herself in the rhythm. Each beat was a cry for those who could no longer speak, a lament for lives extinguished too soon. But it was also a rebellion, a refusal to be silenced. The drum did not judge; it only bore witness. And through it, so did she.

She remembered the night she had first played. It was the night her world had crumbled. Her village had been attacked, its people scattered like ashes in the wind. She had found herself alone in the wilderness, clutching the drum her father had gifted her. He had always said it was more than an instrument—it was a voice. That night, she had struck it in anger, her tears falling onto its surface. The sound had startled her, not because it was loud, but because it felt alive.

Since then, the drum had become her purpose. It was how she processed the grief that threatened to drown her, how she connected with the world she no longer trusted. She had wandered from town to town, playing in markets and squares, sharing her pain with strangers who didn’t know her name. Some stayed to listen, moved by the haunting rhythm. Others scoffed, dismissing her as a madwoman. But Zaira didn’t care. She wasn’t playing for them. She was playing for the ones who were gone, for the ones who had no one to remember them.

As her hands struck the drum with increasing intensity, she felt the energy shift. A small crowd had gathered, their expressions a mix of curiosity and discomfort. Some looked away, uneasy with the raw emotion in her performance. Others stood transfixed, their own pain reflected in the rhythm.

Zaira’s eyes opened, her gaze sweeping over the crowd. She didn’t stop playing. She didn’t need to. The drum spoke for her.

Finally, the rhythm slowed, the beats softening until they faded into silence. Zaira sat motionless, her hands resting on the drum’s surface. The crowd lingered, uncertain. One by one, they began to disperse, their footsteps echoing in the square. But a few remained, their eyes filled with something Zaira hadn’t seen in a long time—recognition.

A young man stepped forward, his voice trembling. “Your music… it feels like you’re telling my story.”

Zaira looked at him, her lips curving into a faint smile. “Maybe I am,” she said.

The man nodded, his eyes glistening. “Thank you.”

As he walked away, Zaira felt a familiar warmth rising in her chest. The pain was still there, a shadow that would never leave. But so was the drum, and through it, she found a way to keep moving.

She lifted her hands and began to play again. For the lost. For the broken. For herself.

The rhythm of the wounded echoed once more, carrying her story into the hearts of those who dared to listen.