The air in Islea smelled different. Alice could not quite place it—something in the wind, in the sun, in the dust as it kicked up from the road. It was warmer than the West, drier, yet full of something unspoken. A quiet hum in the streets, in the way people moved, in the way they looked at her family's car as it rolled past.
She sat in the backseat, watching through the window as her father drove. Her mother, poised as ever, stared ahead, silent. Alice's father had explained that her mother had important diplomatic work to do here, something about the West and Islea trying to find a balance. Alice hadn't paid much attention to the details. What mattered to her was that they were living here now, in a strange land, in a new home that didn't yet feel like home.
Their car pulled up in front of the hospital. Her father had been assigned to work here—something about treating a young boy. That part she understood. She liked watching him work, the way he made people feel better. Maybe today would be like before. She would sit in his office, reading or playing quietly while he did his work.
But today was different.
"Why don't you walk around a bit?" her father said as they stepped inside. "See the hospital. Maybe talk to the other children."
Alice looked up at him, unsure. Talk to other children? That wasn't something she did. She was used to being alone, even when surrounded by people.
Still, she walked. The hospital halls were clean, filled with hushed voices and hurried footsteps. She wandered past doors, past nurses who barely noticed her, until she found herself standing at the entrance of a small room.
Inside, a boy sat in a wheelchair, tossing a ball at the wall and catching it as it bounced back.
He hadn't noticed her yet. She watched as he threw the ball again—thunk, bounce, catch. There was a rhythm to it, a quiet patience in the way he played by himself.
Then the ball missed.
It rolled across the floor, stopping near the door where Alice stood. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then, slowly, she stepped forward, picked it up, and held it out to him.
Alice had heard this boy's name before—Luqman. She had overheard her father mention it in passing while discussing his patients. It was a name foreign to her tongue, yet it clung to her memory.
His dark eyes, deeper than she expected, lingered on her with an intensity that made her shift her weight from one foot to the other.
It was the first time they saw each other properly, eyes meeting in the quiet of the room. He was thin, paler than she expected, with dark eyes that held something deep inside them. He did not reach for the ball right away. Instead, he studied her, as if trying to understand why she was there.
Finally, he took it.
"Thanks," he said, "Alice right?" his voice softer than she expected.
Alice nodded but said nothing. "Well thanks Alice." She turned and walked away as he spoke to her, back to her father's office, where she sat in silence.
The next time she saw him, he was playing with the ball again.
This time, when it rolled away, she was already there to pick it up. She handed it to him quickly, without thinking, and turned to leave.
Before she could take another step, his voice stopped her.
"Alice."
She froze.
It was the first time he had said her name. She only knew his because her father had mentioned it in passing—Luqman. But she had never told him hers.
When she turned back, he tossed the ball toward her.
Surprised, she barely caught it.
He grinned. "Throw it back."
She hesitated, gripping the ball in both hands, then tossed it lightly toward him. He caught it and immediately sent it back.
She threw it again.
And again.
For the rest of the day, they tossed the ball between them, back and forth, never missing a beat. Alice didn't utter a single word. But Luqman talked enough for the both of them.
He told her about his parents—how his father was a doctor, how his mother always scolded him for throwing the ball too hard at the walls. He asked her things, too, filling the silence she left behind.
"Your clothes are fancier than anyone I've ever met. You must be a big shot back in the West."
Alice blinked.
She glanced down at her dress—nothing unusual, just something her mother had chosen for her. But here, among the plain white walls and the simple linen the patients wore, it stood out more than she realized.
She didn't respond. She never did.
But when he threw the ball again, she caught it a little faster.
And when she left that evening, she found herself looking forward to coming back.
It became a quiet ritual. Each day she accompanied her father to the hospital, Alice would pass by the boy's room. Some days, she only glanced inside. Other days, she lingered by the doorway. Eventually, she stopped running away when he spoke to her. Eventually, she stayed.
They played.
It started with the ball. Some days, they tossed it back and forth for hours. Other days, they sneaked out into the children's wing, playing hide-and-seek among the empty beds and curtain-divided rooms. Alice always picked the most obvious hiding spots—behind an IV stand, under a chair, once even curling up beside a stuffed bear on one of the beds. Luqman always found her, but he never complained. He only laughed, and, in time, she laughed too.
But she never spoke. Not once.
Then, one evening, her father had to work late. Her mother was in a meeting, something about the West Islean Senate and diplomatic relations. That meant Alice had to wait at the hospital longer than usual.
She found herself in Luqman's room again, this time sitting near the window.
Together, they watched the setting sun.
Luqman, as always, broke the silence. "The sky always changes."
Alice glanced at him.
He was still looking at the horizon, his expression thoughtful. "When you look at it, it's never the same twice. New colors. New clouds. New light." He paused. "Like new friends. Only they come as quickly as they go."
Alice's fingers curled into her lap. The warm light of dusk bathed her skin, and for the first time, she spoke.
"I understand."
Luqman turned, eyes widening.
She looked at the sky with a quiet sort of wonder. "I never thought about it before. But now… I see it too."
Luqman stared at her, at the girl who had only ever responded with silence, now looking at the world with new appreciation.
And for the first time, he found himself wishing—hoping—that this new friend would never leave.