Eminia

Mixo Chavalala Realistic Urban

countryside had always been a quiet place, but after her parents died, the silence became something else—too heavy, too deep, too wide for sixteen-year-old Eminia to carry.Their old farmhouse creaked in the cold mornings. The walls whispered old memories in every corner. Her mother’s apron still hung behind the kitchen door. Her father’s boots still sat by the entrance, dusty, waiting for footsteps that would never return.It had been three months since the storm.Three months since the sudden flood washed their truck into the swollen river.Three months since the village chief stood on the porch with his hat in his hand and eyes full of something he wished he didn’t have to say.Eminia remembered the night perfectly.The roaring rain.The flashing lights.The cold numbness that swallowed her whole.Now, every morning, she forced herself to get up before sunrise.She fed the chickens.She swept the floor.She tended to the small garden her mother loved.She did it because someone had to—because the world didn’t stop moving, even when hers had shattered.But deep down, she felt like a ghost inside her own life. School was far, chores were endless, and loneliness followed her like a shadow.Still, she refused to leave the farmhouse.It was all she had left of them.Their warmth lived in these walls.Their memories hummed through the quiet valley.Sometimes, when the evenings grew soft and the hills were painted gold, she imagined her mother’s voice in the breeze. She imagined her father’s laughter mixing with the rustle of the fields.Those moments kept her alive.

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