A faint light shone from the corner of the window onto my books, which had been gathering dust in the corner of my room for a long time. The sound of dripping water from the kitchen tap broke the silence of the room. The branches of the trees swayed gently, showing that a soft breeze was passing through. Leaning against the wall, I watched the birds jumping from one branch to another.

The sound of the dripping water and the quiet of the room had completely blended. My mother called me for breakfast. I stood up and walked toward the kitchen. I set the table, and almost all my family members were already there. The smell of warm bread baked in the clay oven filled the house, and everyone spoke happily about its taste.

My mother came in with freshly baked bread. The first bite I took brought back a memory.

I was in ninth grade.

Golden sunlight slowly touched the tall almond tree branches in our yard, and the pleasant smell of fresh bread spread through the morning air. I shared some of that warm bread with the birds that sat every morning on the roof of our small home. They were my close friends. Every day, I told them about my dreams, about how one day I would fly just like them.

Those days felt completely different.

After feeding the birds, I got ready to go to school. Because we had midterm exams, I felt a little nervous. When I arrived at school, everything felt strange. Without saying a word, I walked straight into the classroom.

Inside, I saw Fatema and Raqia sitting by the window on the second bench, studying. They did not notice me. When I sat on the first bench in front of Raqia, she looked up and loudly asked why I was late. Before I could answer, the teacher entered, and the exam began.

That day we had a math exam. After it ended, the teacher stood in front of the class with a troubled face and said, “Until we meet again, I place you in God’s protection.”

Fatema, who was very curious, asked, “Teacher, why are you speaking like this? Does that mean we should not come to school tomorrow?”

With a lump in his throat, the teacher replied, “The provinces of Afghanistan are falling one after another to the Taliban. Perhaps today or tomorrow, Mazar-e-Sharif will fall as well. I ask you to stay in your homes until security is restored.”

One of my classmates asked, “Will the Taliban allow us to study?”

The teacher answered, “Yes, they will allow you to continue your education.”

Hearing this, I felt relieved. Together with Fatema and Raqia, we walked home. On the way, while Raqia and I were talking, something about Fatema caught my attention. She walked quietly, her eyes fixed on the ground. It felt as though a heavy sadness rested on her shoulders.

I softly called her name. She looked at me with tearful eyes, like a spring cloud full of unspoken words. When I asked what was wrong, she whispered with a trembling voice, “My mother says the Taliban are bad people. They treat women and girls like animals. They believe women and girls should not study or work outside the home.”

Raqia confirmed her words.

Fatema’s words stayed in my mind. We said goodbye, hoping we would study together again. That night, Mazar-e-Sharif fell to the Taliban.

I woke up to this terrible news. That morning felt different from all others. Everything was quiet. No children were playing in the streets, no voices of neighbors, no women leaving early for work. Fear-filled silence had taken over the city.

My father did not go to work that day. Yet despite everything, my mother baked warm bread again and told us at the table, “Just as the sun rises after every night, these days will also pass.”

My father agreed.

That same day, the Taliban took Kabul. After that, Afghanistan completely collapsed.

Everyone was worried: my family, my friends, my mother, and I.

After taking power, the Taliban closed schools and universities to girls and women one by one. Women were banned from working outside the home. Their voices were declared forbidden. Women and girls were arrested, abused, and tortured without reason. Girls were banned from taking the university entrance exam.

If schools and universities had not been closed, I could have taken the entrance exam this year and worked toward my dreams. By banning girls from education, the Taliban chained their dreams as well.

That day was the worst day of my life.

More than four years have passed since then. In these years, I have witnessed many painful things. My friends and classmates, one by one, either took their own lives or were forced into early marriages.

Today, the same beautiful sun shines again, and the same smell of warm bread fills the air. But instead of exam stress, I worry about my future. Dreaming has turned into a nightmare. My books gather dust in the corner of my small room, and my pen feels empty of words.

Yet despite everything, I am still Habibeh.

A girl born from pain, from despair, from forgetting. A girl who still hopes. A girl who wipes the dust from her books and dreams, and believes that the future is meant to be beautiful.