The world did not stop.
But something inside Aïcha did.
Not a sound.
Not a fall.
Not a scream.
Just… a silent break.
As if something inside her had detached from the rest of her life.
And refused to come back.
— Aïcha…?
The voice on the phone was shaking.
Unstable.
As if it could break at any moment.
Around her, the street continued.
A car engine roared suddenly.
A burst of laughter exploded nearby.
A bottle rolled on the ground, hitting the pavement and bouncing.
The sound echoed.
Too sharp.
Too real.
Why does everything keep going…?
Why does nothing stop…?
Aïcha did not answer immediately.
Her throat tightened.
As if speaking would make everything real.
Her fingers slowly tightened around the phone.
— …what is it…?
Her voice came out with difficulty.
A broken breath followed.
— It's Braëlla…
The name fell.
Without protection.
Without warning.
Michel slowly turned his head.
— Braëlla…?
he repeated softly.
His eyes fixed on Aïcha.
— Who is she?
Silence.
A real silence.
A living one.
Aïcha stared at a point in front of her.
But she was no longer seeing the street.
— …she's someone…
Her voice faded.
Almost gone.
On the phone, Lina continued.
— She is very sick…
— I am at the University Hospital of Libreville… in the pediatric emergency unit…
— Please… come quickly…
Then the call ended.
Silence returned.
But not the same one.
Aïcha stood still.
The phone still against her ear.
Then she slowly lowered her hand.
Michel looked at her.
— Aïcha…
— What is happening?
— She is at the hospital…
— Is it serious?
Aïcha closed her eyes.
— Yes.
They walked.
The street continued.
A tomato seller.
Laughter.
A running child.
Aïcha walked faster.
— Do you want to explain…?
— Her name is Braëlla.
— She is in pediatric emergency.
A taxi passed.
🚕 (TAXI SCENE – IN ENGLISH)
A taxi was slowly passing under the heavy daylight.
The sun was crushing the buildings, making the air feel still.
Dust floated above the road.
Aïcha stepped forward without thinking.
She raised her hand.
— Taxi!
Michel followed immediately, staying slightly behind.
The vehicle slowed down.
Then stopped in front of them.
The window rolled down with a small creak.
The driver looked at them without speaking.
In the back seat, there were already passengers.
A woman around thirty years old sat there, her face tired, her clothes slightly wrinkled, holding a bag tightly against her chest.
Next to her, a small child of about three years old was crying softly, eyes red, face pressed against his mother's arm.
The woman was gently rocking him, trying to calm him.
— Shh… it's okay… calm down…
Her voice was soft, but her eyes showed exhaustion.
In the front seat, a man was sitting.
Around forty years old, slightly open shirt collar, calm posture, arms resting quietly.
He stared ahead, not involved in anything.
Aïcha stepped closer without hesitation.
Her gaze was fixed.
— University Hospital of Libreville… pediatric emergency.
Silence.
The driver did not answer immediately.
He glanced at the passengers in the back, then at Aïcha through the mirror.
Then Aïcha spoke first.
— 2000 CFA.
Her voice was quick.
Clear.
Decided.
Michel looked at her but said nothing.
The driver blinked.
Then nodded.
— Get in.
Aïcha opened the door immediately.
She entered.
Michel followed.
The door closed with a heavy sound.
Inside…
the heat was trapped, dense, almost sticky.
The air smelled of worn fabric, hot dust, and fuel.
The engine vibrated under their feet.
The child in the back sniffled loudly, then started crying again.
— Shh… my baby… it's okay…
The woman hugged him tighter.
The man in the front stayed still, staring at the road.
The driver observed everything in the mirror.
Then started driving.
Without asking any more questions.
Silence settled in.
But it was not empty.
It was filled.
With quiet cries.
With heavy thoughts.
With different lives sharing the same space.
The driver accelerated slightly, as if understanding that this trip could not wait.