The sun had barely risen over the horizon, casting a golden hue over the sprawling city of Casablanca. The streets below buzzed with the early morning rush, cars honking, vendors setting up their stalls, and the occasional faint call to prayer echoing from the minarets. Yet none of it seemed to penetrate the silence that now enveloped my life.
I had always loved this city—its vibrant energy, the way its people embraced life with an unapologetic fervor, the blend of tradition and modernity that danced in every corner. Casablanca had been my home, my anchor. Now, it felt foreign to me, like an old friend whose presence no longer brought comfort but pain.
I glanced out of the window of my small apartment, the same one I had grown up in, though now stripped of its warmth. The apartment was one of the last remnants of the life I had once known, a life that had been obliterated in an instant.
It had been a regular evening in November, the kind that Casablanca often saw—cool but comfortable, the sky clear. I had been working late, sifting through reports on diplomatic engagements for the Moroccan Embassy in Washington D.C., where I had been stationed as a diplomatic attaché. I remembered feeling slightly tired but satisfied with my work, planning to call my parents in the morning.
Then the earthquake hit.
I had been halfway through drafting an email when the news alert flashed across my screen. The tremor had struck central Casablanca, collapsing buildings, taking lives. In a frantic daze, I tried calling my family. Again and again, the phone rang, but there was no answer. The following hours were a blur, filled with dread, panic, and helplessness as I scrambled to find out what had happened to them. I remember frantically searching for updates, my heart pounding in my chest, and the gnawing certainty that something had gone terribly wrong.
When I finally received confirmation, it was as if the world collapsed in on itself.
My parents, my younger brother—gone. The house where I had grown up, leveled to the ground. In one swift, merciless act of nature, I had lost everything. My world became a desolate wasteland of grief and shock, a nightmare from which there was no waking.
I had flown back to Casablanca immediately, but it had been too late to do anything but bury the dead and try to navigate the chaos that followed. The estate, which I had thought would be a small comfort, turned out to be burdened with debts I hadn't known about. My father, ever the proud man, had hidden the financial difficulties he had faced. Now those debts were mine to bear. With no living relatives, no family left to lean on, I found myself both emotionally shattered and financially destitute.
The Moroccan Embassy had been kind, offering me time to grieve, but I knew I couldn't go back. I couldn't return to Washington, or New York, or Paris, or any of the places where my career had once flourished. Everything had changed, and I was no longer the woman I had been. Diplomatic banquets, policy meetings, international negotiations—they all felt so trivial now, so distant.
I turned away from the window, the bright sun of the city blinding me momentarily. My apartment was sparse now, stripped of the life it once held. Most of the family's belongings had been sold to cover the mountain of debt. The few keepsakes I couldn't part with—the old photographs, my mother's jewelry box, my father's books—were tucked away in a corner. I hadn't been able to look at them without the raw wound of loss tearing open again.
The bills sat on the kitchen table, a constant reminder of my new reality. I had been living on the small amount of savings I had managed to keep, but it was dwindling fast. The inheritance I had thought would provide me security had only brought more problems. The cost of maintaining even this small apartment, the family debts, the legal fees—it was all becoming too much.
I sighed, walking over to the table and picking up the stack of letters. The same routine every morning. Bills, notices, the occasional sympathetic letter from an old colleague. I flipped through them without much interest. None of them held the answers I needed.
I had applied for a few jobs—lower-profile roles in international organizations and NGOs—but nothing had materialized. My reputation in diplomacy had been stellar, my resume impressive, but something had shifted. Perhaps it was the gap in my career after the earthquake, or maybe it was my unwillingness to return to the high-level work I had once thrived in. Whatever the reason, I found myself slipping through the cracks, unable to find steady work. And with each passing day, the debts loomed larger.
The one thing that had kept me going through all of this was the memory of my family. I owed it to them to survive, to rebuild, to honor their memory. That's why, despite everything, I kept searching. I refused to let their legacy die with them. My parents had worked hard to build a life for us, and I wouldn't let that be forgotten.
But as the days passed, I realized that I needed something more than just survival. I needed purpose. I needed a way to rebuild not just my finances, but my life. I had once been Sofia Mansouri, a name that meant something in international circles—a woman who spoke nine languages, who had earned her degrees with honors from the University of Casablanca and Sciences Po in Paris, who had worked at the United Nations in New York, specializing in conflict resolution and peacebuilding in the Middle East and North Africa.
At the UN, I had been part of something bigger than myself. I had been part of missions that helped broker peace, rebuild war-torn regions, and mediate conflicts in places where hope had been lost. I had worked with diplomats from every corner of the world, navigating the complexities of international relations with grace and skill. I had been proud of my work, my ability to speak to people in their own language—whether it was Arabic, French, Spanish, Mandarin, or Russian. Language had been my tool, diplomacy my craft.
And yet, here I was, alone in a small apartment in Casablanca, my life reduced to bills and memories.
I sighed, setting the stack of letters aside and moving toward my laptop. I logged in, not expecting much. The job boards were always the same—positions I was either overqualified for or unable to take due to my financial situation. I couldn't afford to take an unpaid role, and most of the well-paying jobs required me to relocate, something I couldn't do without clearing my debts first.
But today, there was something different.
As I scrolled through my inbox, I noticed an email that stood out. It wasn't from a recruiter or an NGO. It wasn't spam or another bill reminder. The subject line was simple, almost cryptic: "A position, if you are interested."
I hesitated. The sender was anonymous, the email address encrypted. I had seen enough phishing scams to be wary, but something about this felt… different. My heart beat a little faster as I clicked on the email, half-expecting it to be a virus.
The message was short, but it struck me like a lightning bolt.
"I know what you have lost. I can offer you something—something that will allow you to rebuild, to honor the legacy of your family."
Beneath the message was an address, but no name, no signature. My mind raced as I stared at the screen, trying to make sense of it. Who would send something like this? How did they know about me? About my situation?
My first instinct was to delete it. I didn't trust anything that came from anonymous sources, especially not after everything I had been through. But at the same time, I couldn't ignore the tug of curiosity, the tiny flicker of hope that maybe—just maybe—this could be real.
I stood from the desk and began pacing the room, trying to weigh my options. I had been in desperate situations before—but this was different. This was my life, my future.
I had nothing left to lose.
With a deep breath, I sat back down and opened the email again. I typed out a quick response.
"Who are you?"
I hit send, half-expecting the message to bounce back. But within seconds, another reply came.
"You will find me at the address below. We will talk in person. Only your personal belongings are permitted, bring no-one else."
That was it. No further information, no explanation. Just an address—the middle of nowhere in central Africa, according to the map, and a location with a private jet waiting.
I stared at the screen, my mind racing. This could be dangerous. It could be a trap, or worse. But what if it wasn't? What if this was the opportunity I had been waiting for?
I looked around the apartment, at the bills, the empty space, the fading memories of the life I had lost. I couldn't keep living like this—on the edge of survival, with nothing but grief and debt to keep me company. I needed a way out.
With that thought, I stood up, packed all my items into a few suitcases, and grabbed my coat. My heart was pounding as I headed for the door, the weight of uncertainty hanging over me. I didn't know what I was walking into, but for the first time in a long time, I felt something other than despair.
"I have a position for you, if you're interested."
And I was.